


Zoologist Interrupted

by evelle90



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alien Biology, Angst, Angst and Humor, Animals, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Comedy of Errors, Cuddling & Snuggling, Entomology, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Funny, Humor, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Newcomers, Pets, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Romantic Comedy, Salty, Sarcasm, Sassy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Zoo, Zoology, aunt Georgia, aunt Georgia & Karen, cuddly Kylo Ren, ya'll E.T.'s are in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 66,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelle90/pseuds/evelle90
Summary: All you wanted to do is keep researching your bugs, maybe even crank out a few publications in the Journal of Galactic Entomology. But when you get mistaken for a member of the rebellion you get roped into the endless Star Wars that you've spent your whole life avoiding.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 87
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But you’re not a moonmantis. You’re not a spitter. Shit, you’re not even a yeller. You’re an entomologist. And like most biological scientists you’re stuck in the cruel limbo of hating people while having a firm stance against violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this finds its people.

The ancient, rickety bunk you sleep on slams in such a violent manner against the stone walls of the base, that in your half-asleep state you imagine you’re getting slapped around by a zillo beast. 

“Muwahhhhh! Whaa - how-whur?!” you jerk awake. 

Once you realize what’s happening, your focus becomes singular. Driven by your purpose, you slip with uncharacteristic grace from the top bunk and step into your dirty off-white jumpsuit. The distinct sound of artillery has you abandoning the zipper and scrambling into your boots. 

“I fucking _knew_ it!” you hiss through gritted teeth as you run out of the door of your room. Pulling back your hair, you are catapulted into the full chaos of the base. Your goal is the side door, but you have to push through a horde of busy bodies. Every single collision increases your panic and rage, and by the time you get to your destination to only see it is being guarded, you’re sure your face has surpassed red and gone to purple. 

For the past two years this old abandoned base on this remote salt planet in the Outer Rim Territories (read: BFE) was your ecological kingdom. When you found the forgotten fortress hidden inside the very cliffs the glass flyers made their home, you’d been elated. Setting up camp in the base freed up thousands of credits from the limited budget awarded to you by the Galactic Science Foundation (GSF) for your research. 

But in the past twenty four hours all your work was being, quite literally, pushed aside for the sake of some stupid never ending war. Expensive equipment and terrariums have been haphazardly shoved into dark corners to make room for a logistics team to set up. Upon their arrival, you’d been assured by a kind-faced general that this would be a temporary stop for them. She assured you that they’d be gone in less than a week. You’d planned to protest. You’d planned to point out to her that, historically speaking, politics never bent the knee to science and your research would be crushed under their boots as easily the delicate crystalline salt surface of the planet would. But there was something about her tone that was hypnotic and soothing and you... forgot somehow. 

Now, as you’d feared, these idiotic people had brought the war with them and you need to salvage what you can of your research. 

The hive you’d been watching had grown to a size never before seen, the queen living to an unprecedented age. You’d planned to extract her once she’d aged out and examine her for what could have caused this abnormality, but it looked like you were going to have to expedite the process. There is no way a glass hive hanging like a stalactite on the cliff face would be able to survive the impacts you were feeling from under your feet. You only hoped you weren’t too late. 

“Excuse me,” you address the armed guard. Although the words are polite, your tone is anything but. 

“Are you serious?” He shakes his head in disbelief and widens his stance. You huff and roll your eyes at the aggressive machiesmo rolling off of him, “The First Order is on our doorstep. There’s no way I’m letting you out of here sweetheart.” 

Your spine stiffens. Where do you even start? 

_**Your** doorstep?? There’s no way he’s **letting** me out? **SWEETHEART!?**_

Spitting. That’s what you want to do. You want to spit on his dumb, patronizing face. You want to spit on his disgusting blaster. If only you were a Kashyykian moonmantis, then you’d be able to paralyze him with your spit. 

But you’re not a moonmantis. You’re not a spitter. Shit, you’re not even a yeller. You’re an entomologist. And like most biological scientists you’re stuck in the cruel limbo of hating people while having a firm stance against violence. 

Fortunately while you’re fantasizing about paralyzing Mr. Testosterone, a commotion at the large front doors draws his attention and he bounds away from his post. Without a second thought or even a look back, you slip through the side door and sprint out into the blinding light of the endless white salt flats. 

The loud explosions vibrate not only your ear drums, but the ground under your feet. From your periphery you can see flashes of red but you know that if you look toward the battle you’ll lose focus. So you keep your eyes forward and race along the side of the cliff toward the hive. 

It’s hot. Perspiration drips from your brow and stings your eyes, your breath is ragged and your muscles are aching but there’s only about twenty feet that separates you from the narrow crevice in the cliff face where your hive is located. 

“Halt!” a robotic male voice from behind you shouts and your legs falter. You fall onto your hands and knees. Twisting at the waist you see a stormtrooper, his white armor dusted with sprays of the fine red rhodochorosite sublayer. He has his blaster pointed at you.

“Hands up!”

You do as he says, shuffling around on your knees to face him.

“Stand up!” He flicks his blaster up to indicate the movement he’s demanded of you. You take note of how his voice wavers and how he shuffles back and forth on his feet. 

_He’s nervous._ You realize as you rise, a slow and awkward process with your arms up. _He must be young._

“Don’t shoot me.” you speak slow and careful, like you’re trying to coax a bantha from it’s cave, “I’m a scientist. I’m not part of all this,” you rotate your hands around your head, indicating the bedlam around you. 

It was a mistake. Your movement spooked Baby Stormtrooper and he shot. Lucky for you, he was a horrible shot and he missed. You take the opportunity to retrieve your queen, turning on your heel and darting the rest of the way into the narrow crevice in the cliff. 

Positioning yourself under the hive, you spread out your limbs like a starfish, using the tension from the narrow wall on either side of you to shimmy up toward the hive. Your hive. Your research.

To an untrained eye the glass flyer’s hive would just look like a stalactite made of crystals, shimmering in the sun. But you knew that wasn’t shimmering, it was the movement of thousands of glass flyers. And from the way they were moving now, you could tell they were agitated. 

_Poor babies._ You empathize and you knew that once you were removed from all of this you’d feel guilty for ripping their queen from them and dissembling life as they knew it in their moment of turmoil. But you couldn’t just let years of research go to waste. 

By the time the ‘trooper had caught up to you, you were already halfway up the wall. 

“HALT!” His voice is louder this time. 

The hive begins to ripple with waves of red, the flyers are flashing a warning. You freeze, but not because you’re afraid of the flyers - you’ve long since become immune to the venom of their stings. No, you freeze because as a biologist you know there is nothing more dangerous than a terrified and desperate young male trying to prove himself in battle. You’d take your odds with an acklay over this anyday. 

“What’s that?” Even though his voice is modified you can hear the frayed edges of fear in it. He angles his blaster up at the hive. 

“No no no! **Don’t shoot!** ” You flail your arms and lose your grip, falling with little grace onto the hard ground below. The wind gets knocked out of you, but you have no time for that. You jackknife yourself into a sitting position just in time to see the bastard shoot. 

“NOOO!!” you scream. You watch the largest colony of glass flyers ever recorded be obliterated in a fraction of a second, a beautiful supernova of snowy crystalline shards and deep blood red. 

The pandemonium that follows plays out in slow motion, taking a back seat to your despair. 

As you knew they would, the surviving workers lash out, swarming you and the ‘trooper. They’re furious, relentlessly puncturing every piece of exposed flesh with their sharpened first legs. You barely feel it. Even though he is covered with armor, the ‘trooper windmills his arm stupidly. It only makes the flyers more frantic and soon his whole helmet is covered in them, it looks like a giant diamond shimmering with flashes of red light. 

The flyers are adept at carving the crystal salt, it’s what they make their hive from, so it won't be long before they break through his visor. Once they can get to his skin, you know a swarm this angry and large would definitely be able to kill him. 

You plan to help him. You really do. But just as you’re about to move, a chunk of hive the size of an infant's fist falls into your lap. Your eyes start to well with tears and you don’t even register the horrified screams as you follow the intricate interlacing spiral tunnels with your finger tips. Your magnificent invertebrates, your babies, they’d carefully crafted these tunnels out of crystal over the course of years. And for what? Their whole hive was destroyed in seconds by an undertrained, trigger-happy pawn of a stupid never-ending war.

.  
.  
.  
.

“Who’s that?” 

You don’t know how long you sat there, but by the time the sound of voices draw you out of your trance the flyers are gone. 

“I don’t know, is he dead?” another voice answers. 

Looking up, you blink away your tears just in time to see two more stormtroopers approach the motionless body of their comrade. 

“ _Holy shit_ …,” the one on the left exhales. 

“What the _fuck_ happened to him?” the right one says, nudging the supine man with the tip of his boot. 

They hadn’t noticed you yet, tucked away in your crevice - but it was only a matter of time. Wrapping your fingers around the chunk of hive, you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jump suit as you stand. 

Your body is sore - from the fall, or the heartbreak, or the hundreds of tiny welts the flyers left on you as a parting gift - either way, you can’t help the groan that escapes your lips. The two living troopers snap their heads toward you in a synchronized motion and raise their blasters to you. 

“Halt!” It’s so predictable at this point, you mouth it along with them. You slip the crystal into your hip pocket discreetly before raising your arms, beating them to the punch when a few moments later they shout, “Hands up!” 

“Come with us, rebel scum.” You’re too tired to correct them, and have a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t listen anyway - so you just let them handcuff your hands behind your back and lash you to the back of their speeder. The once pristine salt flat is streaked with deep red gashes. It now looks to be bleeding, no, hemorrhaging, from the destruction of the battle. 

You suck in a breath as you watch your home of two years, your research base, your passion project, grow smaller and smaller. And you wonder if you’ll ever lay eyes on Crait again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon creatures mentioned: zillo beast, bantha  
> Creatures created by yours truly: glass flyers (genus: _Glaspterya_ ), Kashyykian moonmantis


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I hate that absurd leather glove, you disgusting gothic robot... person._

You think this must be what an oxygen molecule feels like in your circulatory system as you're pulled down a corridor by a trooper whose grip is tight around your bicep. 

After the speeder you were taken onto a small shuttle, from that shuttle an even larger one. Then you were guided off into a huge room with rows and rows of armed, gleaming white stormtroopers as far as the eye could see. You could tell from the large window behind them - and the pit in your stomach that always forms in artificial gravity - that you’re in space. 

You’ve been pulled, pushed, prodded, and manhandled to different locations for what seems like days. Though the rational side of you points out that since you’ve only needed to pee once, there's no way it could be more than a few hours. 

The trooper throws you into a cell and the door slides shut. You look around. The room is about the size of the refresher you had at back on Crait. The floors and walls are lined with the same immaculate black reflective material that the rest of the ship seems to be covered in. 

_Fancy._

There are at least half a dozen others in the cell with you and there’s nowhere to sit. The whole room is bathed in dim red light, and there’s an angled metal grate above our heads where you can see a stormtrooper lording over you on a suspended catwalk.The other prisoners seem to know each other, they huddle together speaking in hushed tones and sneaking frightened glances up toward our armed babysitter. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat as you watch them. You hate them. These are the people who brought the war to your research haven. The sound of heavy footsteps draws your gaze up as two figures arrive onto the catwalk and your brow furrows even deeper. Because you also hate _them_. _These_ are the people who _ordered_ the destruction of your research haven.

Both figures are clothed in black. The smaller of the two is a red-headed man with a pinched face and ridiculous sideburns. And the other is dressed in a costume so ludicrous you almost want to laugh. Almost. The person is covered head to toe in all black. Their boots, pants, chestplate, leather gloves, and cloak (yes, _cloak!_ ) is all the same uniform shade of inky black. The only thing that isn’t is the red and metallic silver details on their mask. 

After your new audience settles in, clasping their hands behind their backs and adopting a wide-legged power stance, the cell doors open with a hiss. The other prisoners gasp and cower, as a man and a woman in First Order uniforms come in followed by a guard each. Rage keeps you rooted to the spot. It bubbles up inside your chest cavity, making it feel tight and you narrow your eyes at them. 

_I hate Every. Single. Person. Here._

This is the thought that circles your brain as the prisoners are systematically selected, questioned and executed (you assume). 

_I hate your stupid braid, you stupid rebel pilot._ You think when they pull a woman in an orange jumpsuit out of the group. 

_I hate your idiototic voice, you trash First Order lieutenant… or whatever you are._ You think as they pick the pilot’s brain to see if she’s high enough up the rebel chain to be useful to them. 

_I hate that absurd leather glove, you disgusting gothic robot... person._ You think when the figure looming above your head, raises it’s arm and squeezes it’s over-large hand into a fist. 

_I hate that all of you won’t stop screaming and crying, like you didn’t know what you were getting into when you decided to be an active participant in a **WAR!**_ You growl internally, and unempathetically at your fellow prisoners when the pilot is pulled away and taken outside. What follows is a sound of a blast and an ominous thud. You hate that too. 

On and on this internal monolog goes until you’re the last one standing - alone in the cell. You hate the way you shiver as the First Order lackey’s turn their attention to you. You notice the corners of the female’s mouth twitch up.

“It’s cold.” You spit out an explanation, not like she deserved one. 

“It is.” She agrees, “State your name and rank.” 

You comply with her first command but not the second. 

“Are you deaf?” Her male companion shouts, “She _said_ , state your name _and_ rank.” 

“I’m not deaf,” you speak purposefully in a low patronizing voice, as if you’re speaking sternly to a small child. They have to lean forward to hear, “I have no rank, nor any affiliation with the First Order or the Rebels. I’m an entomologist.” You look between their black faces, then simplify, “A scientist.” 

“Liar!” the man, who you’re beginning to think may have taken one too many performance enhancing drugs, shouts, “If you have nothing to do with the Rebels, _why_ were you found on their base? _Why_ did you attack a soldier of the First Order?” He crosses his arms and looks satisfied with himself. 

“I have been stationed on Crait for the past two years under a grant from the Galactic Science Foundation to study a formerly unknown species of social invertebrates in the genus _Glaspterya_. If you don’t believe me, check the GSF’s database. Up until a day ago, I’d yet to see another humanoid species in the vicinity.” Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb glance up at the two statues. The one with the constipated face makes a slight wave with his hand “go on.” 

“What about the soldier?” The woman thumbed through a file in her hands, “JE-0993? They said they found you next to him and that his visor had been broken and his face was, ‘swollen to three times its normal size’ and was, ‘covered in deep purple welts with shards of glass sticking out of them.’” 

She puts the file down and then gives you a disappointed look, “Can you please explain to me why one of _our_ brave soldiers was found so brutally murdered by someone who claims to not be a rebel, but has been living on a rebel base?” 

You can’t help yourself, you let out a chuckle as you cross your arms across your chest. The balls on this lady to accuse you outright of a murder with only circumstansial evidence. 

“I didn’t murder your precious soldier. But I can explain how he died, though I can’t guarantee you’ll _understand_.” you tap your temple knowingly and delight when she glowers at your insult. “You see, as I mentioned, I was on Crait researching a new found species of flying invertebrate commonly known as ‘glass flyers.’ These creatures are eusocial - they have a highly complex social structure - and as many eusocial animals do they have a queen and a hive. The workers make the hive by cutting and shaping the salt crystals on the planet with their front limbs which have been modified to be razor sharp. Imagine, if you will, that your hands have turned into razor sharp knives.” You hold out your hands in front of you and slice them through the air in front of you, your interrogators lean back. 

“Anyway… ,” you proceed on a sigh, “When I heard the commotion outside I had one goal: to save the queen of this particular colony. I almost did, but your mindless _drone_ shot down the colony, destroying the hive in the process. And let’s just say, he pissed off the flyers that survived.” 

“If that’s true,” the male this time, “why is he dead and you’re still standing?” 

You roll your eyes, gathering the last scraps of the patience you possess and explain your immunity. Taking time to point out the less-lethal, but still painful welts from your own attack that line your wrists, cover your hands, and dot your face. 

There’s a few beats of silence as the two send each other weighty glances, no doubt trying to decide what to do with you.

“Did you know the people who came to the base were Rebels?” a deep modified voice intoned from the ominous figure above. 

You look up at him - for you could now reasonably assume the phantom was a he - and shout your answer so he can hear, “No, I didn’t _know_ , but I guessed as much.” 

“Then why did you not alert the First Order, as would be your civic duty?” 

_This fucking guy. Has he not heard a word I’ve said?_

“Because, I wanted to avoid getting my research blown up!” 

“How can we trust where your loyalties lie?” He growls down at you. 

“I’ve _told_ you where my loyalties lie: with science.” 

The mask makes a derisive noise, perhaps a snort and you watch as he lifts his arm to give the signal. It’s not like you didn’t see it coming, you’ve had no problem telling them exactly how pissed off you are, and what use does the military have for a bug biologist in times of war? Still, you close your eyes and say a silent plea. To whom? You’re not sure. 

Whoever it was, must’ve been listening. Because no one is pulling you out to be shot. You peek one eye open and see the pale one speaking to Autotune. He looks like he’s trying to reason with his colleague. 

“Excuse me,” the redhead calls down. His voice is shockingly elegant, especially when compared to his partner’s, “You say you’re an enta - a biologist of sorts?” 

You nod, “An entomologist. I specialize in arthropods.” The look he gives you can only be described as blank. So you add, “Bugs.” 

From the way he frowns, you don’t think your answer is what he was looking for. 

“But my background is in zoology, as a whole.” 

He perks up and tosses a meaningful glance at the scary one, who storms away in a swirl of capes.... _without_ giving the death signal. 

It isn’t until you relax that you realize how tense you were. 

“Clean her up, have a medic see to those wounds, then deliver her to my quarters.” Hux commands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon creatures mentioned:  
> Creatures from the imagination of yours truly: glass flyers
> 
> [Also, apparently Alice in Wonderland exists in this universe per the Tweedle Dee/Dumb reference? Just let me have it.]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man’s smile fades as he realizes your question is sincere, “Surely you’ve heard my name? General Hux?” 
> 
> “Sorry… ,” you mumble. Flattery, ego-stroking, and flirting do not come naturally to you and somehow you’ve already offended this man. This is going to be exhausting.

You’ve been allowed thirty minutes in a refresher to shower, clean the salt and grit out of your mouth, and comb the tangles out of your hair. When you come out, with a towel wrapped around your chest, you’re handed a stack of folded clothing with some new black boots on top. 

The clothing is simple, but comfortable, clean, and made from high quality fabric. Simple white cotton underwear, with a built-in-bra camisole (which you can’t help but snort at: do they _really_ think this will do anything to support and contain your curves?). Over this you pull on a pair of grey leggings, and a black long-sleeved tunic. 

After an apathetic medic slathers some cold green cream over your wounds, you’re taken to a small vehicle and driven for a whole fifteen whole minutes through the winding labyrinth of corridors on the ship. 

This is when the bleak reality of your situation hits you. _Even if_ the escape pods on this city of a ship were one of the two types of pods you learned how to pilot, you’d have to be able to override the inevitable security to board them. Then, _even if_ you were somehow able to get past the security, you’d have to be able to find the pods without raising suspicion - something you are now 99.8% certain you would never be able to do. 

_I guess being the fancy bird-faced man’s sex slave is better than dying? On the bright side: it’s been two and a half years since an actual person (besides myself) has paid my lady parts any attention._

You chuckle to yourself, drawing the glances of your stormtrooper guards. Morbid and inappropriate as it may be, humor is your go-to coping mechanisms in high-stress situations out of your control. 

The transport comes to a halt in a wide, quiet hallway and you’re led to a large door which your new master practically prances right out of. Something about his evident eagerness makes you feel nauseated. He wastes no time shooing away the troopers and hustling you into his quarters, but you do take note of the name on a plaque adjacent to the door: General Armitage Hux. 

_General? Huh..._

You examine his baby smooth milky skin. Try as you might, you cannot picture this man in battle. 

With a hand lightly pressing on the small of your back, he leads you into his quarters. Gesturing for you to take a seat on a low black leather sofa. Everything in his quarters is as shiny and modern as the rest of the ship. It’s high quality, but sterile - designed more for efficiency than comfort. 

After you sit, the General trots away toward the kitchenette, calling over his shoulder, “Would you like a drink? I have some Corellian gin that has been just _begging_ to be opened.”

“Water is fine,” you’ll need keep your wits about you if you want to get this man in your pocket. 

After several moments he approaches you and hands you your drink while lowering himself to sit next to you. While he sips his bubbly cocktail, his eyes skate across your body and your skin prickles under his scrutiny. 

“Relax, Ms.... what should I call you?” 

“Doctor is fine.” You smirk, flexing your PhD. He furrows his brow and you kick yourself, cursing your salty, sarcastic mouth. If you ever want to get off this ship, he’s your only hope. 

“So, you’re a general? That’s impressive.” The look you gave him was intended to be coy and sparkly eyed, but you must have missed the mark because a small expression of disgust flashes over his features. 

He clears his throat, “No need to act like you don’t know me, doctor.” 

“What do you mean?” 

The man’s smile fades as he realizes your question is sincere, “Surely you’ve heard my name? General Hux?” 

“Sorry… ,” you mumble. Flattery, ego-stroking, and flirting do not come naturally to you and somehow you’ve already offended this man. This is going to be exhausting. 

“Goodness, you really don’t know me? Have you been living under a rock?” 

_**'Goodness'?**_ Taking a sip of your water is necessary to hide your smirk. 

When you recover adequately, you answer, “Yes,I’ve quite literally been living under a rock, a large rock in Crait if you remember, for the past two years.” 

His eyes light up and he leans over to put his drink on the coffee table, “Yes, so you were studying some sort of small creepy crawlies there?” 

_'Creepy crawlies'?_ Still, if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was genuinely fascinated by your response. 

“I studied glass flyers.” 

“Tell me, Doctor, do you have any experience with... larger animals?” 

“Um...,” You put your drink down next to his, an unsettling twisting feeling in your stomach. You can’t seem to get a read on this man. “Like I said, my undergrad degree is in zoology. I’ve worked with several smaller vertebrates for past research, before I specialized. And I interned for a semester at a zoo in Naboo.” 

“Interesting…,” Hux goes quiet, retreating into his thoughts. 

All at once, the adrenaline that’s been keeping you going starts to plummet. You feel worn out, as if you’ve been run over by a herd of fathiers. You’re too tired to flirt, too tired to dance around what you are positive you are here for, too tired to manipulate your way into Hux’s heart to get what you need from him. You just want to get it over with so you can sleep. 

On an inhale, you grip the hem of your tunic and with heavy arms start to pull the material over your head. 

“ _Doctor!_ What in the name of Vader are you doing?” Hux puts a hand on your elbow to stop you. 

“Erm…,” you peer awkwardly over your forearms at him. He’s staring at your torso, not with lust, but horror. A wave of defensiveness washed over you and you rapidly cover yourself back up. “Aren’t we…?” you gesture between the two of you. 

His jaw drops open and he shakes his head as vehemently as if you were a Hutt who’s just suggested he spend his life chained to my side, “No, no no no, no. No. NO!” 

“Geez, Sideburns. You sure know how to make a lady feel good about herself.” making no effort to hold back the venom. It’s confusing to you why you’re so offended. But you are. Being a sex slave to a First Order General who looks like he just started puberty a few months ago wasn’t what you wanted. So why are you so upset he’s telling you you’re off the hook?

_How **dare** he! This fucker has the balls to look at my tits like that! Doesn’t he know that these mammary glands are legends? That there are songs sung about them at my alma mater?_

Hux clears his throat, his face is so red it looks painful. You lean back and cross your arms over your chest in a full blown petulant teen maneuver. 

“Listen,” his voice is pleading, “I don’t know how this went so wrong. Can I start over?” 

Narrowing your eyes at him, “Go on.” 

“There’s been a misunderstanding. You see, I brought you here today because I’m something of a… _collector_ .” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. 

_Oh shit. He’s gonna murder me and cut off my boobs for a trophy!_

He must see the panic cross your face because the rest of his explanation comes out in a rush, “I have an affinity for exotic pets. Since my position in the Order requires lots of traveling, I have unprecedented access to dealers across the galaxy. The reason I spared you is because one of my more recent… acquisitions is ailing, and I would like you to use your expertise to help me.” 

The fact that Hux is not going to bronze your tits, but is instead an exotic-pet-douche-canoe lessens your fear of him, but not your distaste for him. However, you know better than to show it at this critical moment. Instead, you do your best impression of a sympathetic friend and pat his hand. 

.  
.  
.  
.

Hux’s “acquisition” is a kapactyl. And within ten seconds of seeing it, you knew exactly what was wrong. Its habitat is completely inappropriate. 

The cold-blooded vertebrates, commonly referred to as dwarf varactyls, are endemic to Utapau and are thought to be rare. Although, you knew this wasn’t the case. Though related, kapactyls lead very different lives than varactyls. The former species is a product of domestication, they are diurnal, large, and prefer a habitat with wide open spaces with lots of sun. In contrast, when kapactyls are full grown they are no longer than the forearm of a grown man, they’re nocturnal and prefer a sinkhole habitat. 

This idiot had put him in a full on desert habitat. You wince as he reaches in to grab the beast. The kapactyl’s thick scaly skin is an anemic grey and flaking from the incessant light of the sun lamps. A healthy kapactyl has deep gem toned scales. 

“Her name is Lola.” 

“ _His_ name is Lola.” You absent-mindedly correct as you reach out to cradle him, “Female kapactyl’s are known for spitting acid. And since you’re not blind…,” you shrug and trail off, becoming distracted by the poor animal in your arms. 

Male-Lola is not doing well. Not at all. The whites of his eyes are turning light blue, his long tongue is pale and dry, and he is wasting away. A wave of fury washes over you followed closely by guilt. Fury directed toward Hux, who has no business keeping this creature as a pet. He knows absolutely nothing about how to care for it. Guilt because with all his cards now on the table, you think you might have some leverage. 

You look away from the kapactyl and get right to it, “I know what’s wrong with Lola, and I will help you make him better… on one condition: that you take me back to Crait to salvage what’s left of my research once I’m done.” 

General Armitage Hux removes the mask of gracious host and gentleman he’s been wearing, revealing the cold cunning that lay beneath. His kind blue eyes turn cutting, his smile transforms into a sneer, and when he speaks his voice is no longer dainty, it’s dangerous. “Doctor, if my kapactyl isn’t faring better in a week, I will let the pretty boy crush your windpipe with his mind. How’s that for a bargain?” 

Being reminded of your helplessness is a slap in the face and once you recover you swallow and nod. Though you wonder: 

_What did he mean when he said he’d let the ‘pretty boy’ crush my windpipe with his mind? Who is the pretty boy? And what sort of powers does he have?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon creatures mentioned: varactyl  
> Creatures from my imagination: glass flyers, kapactyl/dwarf-varactyl (however, I can't take full credit since they are essentially small varactyls.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A _grown man_? Throwing tantrums? In elevators? Does he have damage to his amygdala or is he just an asshole?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the inclusion of animals endemic to Earth: Initially I wasn't going to include any species of animals endemic to Earth. _However!_ I changed my mind for the following reasons/justifications: 
> 
> \- I don't have the brainpower/I'm not imaginative enough. (Yours truly is currently in medical school, give me a break please!)   
> \- It's too _haaaard!_   
> \- If homo sapiens exist in Star Wars canon, bitches could reasonably argue that a very similar process of evolution would have to be carried out in the galaxy far far away. Thus, similar species would be expected to be in existence. (It's me. I'm bitches.)
> 
> Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

Hux arranges for you to sleep in the stormtrooper barracks. You suppose you should be grateful it’s not in a cell, but you’re still under round-the-clock surveillance. Stormtroopers are assigned to you in shifts. They are ordered to help you “get what you need” and “make sure you behave,” but you’re sure they resent the menial job and hate you for it. 

Over the next few days, through the expert-level eavesdropping skills, you’ve acquired by years of field work, you deduce the following: 

**1:** You are aboard a vessel called, unimaginatively, a _Star Destroyer_.  
**2:** The politics on the Star Destroyer are as dramatic as a Gungan holo-drama thanks to a power struggle between your boy Hux and someone called Kylo Ren. Apparently, they both want to be the queen bee of this hive.  
**3:** The aforementioned Kylo Ren is the menacing masked figure who was looming next to Hux on your first day aboard the vessel.  
**4:** You are 98% sure that Kylo Ren is also the “pretty boy” to whom Hux referred. And his “mind powers” are widely attributed to The Force (eye roll). 

“What? You don’t believe in The Force?” 

_Ah, I’ve been made._

You are working on drilling a hole in a slab of granite in a mechanical production sector of the ship. With what tools you are allowed to use, it is _slooooooow_ going. At this rate, by the time you get Male-Lola’s new habitat made you’ll both be dead. The mechanic you’ve been eavesdropping on caught you red-handed. 

“Hey! You! I’m talking to you,” He shouts. 

You point to yourself and raise an innocent eyebrow. _Who me?_

“Yeah, you. Why’d you make that face? You don’t believe in The Force?” 

“Oh,” you chuckle and wave a diplomatic safety-gloved hand, “I don’t make a habit of talking politics or religion.” 

He snorts and you squirm. 

“You see, I consider myself a woman of science,” even you cringe when you hear yourself, but it’s too late to back out now, “I study biology, so I know about the existence of midichlorians. However, I try not to entertain subjective and historically problematic beliefs, such as being ‘force sensitive.’” 

“The Force and being force sensitive isn’t subjective. I’ve seen it in action.” 

“Yes, and I’ve also talked to people who have claimed to be hypnotized, or who are certain their personalities are dictated by the stars. It’s all a very… psycho-social concept, isn’t it? But I would never claim to be the expert on these sorts of things.” 

The mechanic mumbles something to his friends along the lines of: _can you believe this bitch?_ And you don’t blame him. 

After years of solitude with only many-legged invertebrates and scientific literature to keep you company, your social skills are disgraceful at best. Still, you yearn for socialization, for laughter, for touch, for connection and as a biologist you know these needs come from your very genetic makeup.  
.  
.  
.

Several hours later, your guard informs you that it’s time to head to the cafeteria for dinner. After stepping back to look at your progress, you breathe out a sigh of defeat, you’ve barely scratched a quarter of an inch off of the granite slab. 

Following your guard into the lift, you wrack your brain, trying to think up another way to carve out this sinkhole. You resent it because your brain isn’t trained to think like this. 

_If I wanted to go into habitat design I would’ve gone to school for fucking engineer-_

But your thought comes to a complete halt as you register your surroundings. In the titanium walls of the lift there are violent, deep, grooves, as if a monster with tremendous smouldering claws has racked them across the surface. 

“What did this?” you ask your guard, running your palm across the uneven surface. 

“More like _who_ did that,” the guard pauses, before answering and you register too late that he’s waiting for you to react. He clears his throat, “Uhm, it was Kylo Ren. He’s known for… going into rages.” 

This news shocks you. “A _grown man_? Throwing tantrums? In elevators? Does he have damage to his amygdala or is he just an asshole?” 

A nervous laugh is your only reply from the guard. 

“Can you take me to him?”  
.  
.  
.  
.

It took over an hour to find the man-child in black, and by this time your guard is hangry and completely sick of your shit. 

“There he is,” he points down to the end of the long corridor. 

Anyone who passes the ominous masked figure walking your direction gives him a wide berth. And from the frightened glances they shoot over their shoulders as they pass, you suspect it had nothing to do with his swirling cape. Against your will (and much to your irritation) a chill runs down your spine. 

Grabbing the white polymer armor of your guard’s forearm you say, “Lets go!” 

He doesn’t budge and you look back at him with an inquisitive look on your face. 

He shakes his head, “You wanted to find Ren. There he is. If _you_ want to talk to him _you_ go.”

Hearing the finality in his tone, you turn on your heel and propelled by your irritation storm towards your target. “ _Stupid, **useless** guard._” you grumble under your breath. 

The distance you need to travel to get to him is enough that you start to second guess yourself. On one hand, this is the man who was about to have you killed, and as you get closer you start to realize how **large** he is. But on the other, if you don’t get that sinkhole cut soon Hux’ll let him kill you anyway. This is the fact that gives you the courage to approach him. 

“Excuse me, are you Rylo Ken?” Is your winner of an opening line, “Ugh. Sorry, I mean _Ky_ -lo Ren. Are you him?” A self deprecating chuckle escapes your throat. 

This draws him up short and he freezes a few feet in front of you, peering down at you from his expressionless mask. The seconds seem to drag on and on… and on. Then right when you’re about to repeat yourself in a louder voice ( _maybe the same thing that damaged his amygdala also affected his hearing?_ ), he pivots and pushes right past you - _without_ answering your question. 

_Are. You. **Fucking.** Kidding. Me?!_

After you recover from the douche-baggery induced temporary paralysis, you turn right around and jog to catch up to him. 

“ _Excuse me_!” you shout up at him, “I don’t know if that helmet hinders your auditory reception, or what, but I asked you **a question**. Are! You! **Kylo! REN**!?” 

Without even a hiccup in his step or glance in your direction he replies, “I heard you.” 

His voice is made so deep by the modifier it vibrates throughout the increasing tension of your chest cavity. You’re panting from trying to keep up with his long incessant strides and are desperate to get his attention before you run out of steam. 

“Noted. Not deaf. Just an asshole.” 

Nothing. 

“Why do you wear a mask, _pretty boy_?” 

You notice his hand clench into a fist at his side. 

_Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere._

“Is it because you have a high squeaky voice? Is it because it’s popular with the ladies? Is it because you look too much like your father, and you hate your fath-,” 

A hand is on your windpipe, crushing the last syllable off and you’ve been pushed up against the wall behind you. 

A confetti of thoughts and emotions rain down on you as you try to process what is happening. Underneath the panic of being choked it sounds a little something like this: 

_Ah ha! That got his attention. Daddy issues, how predictable. *internal eyeroll* Wait… if his hand is right there, who’s hand is choking me? What the actual fuck is happening? Shit. How ironic would it be if I died from The Force after a lifetime of not believing in it._

All at once, everything is released. You crumble to the floor gasping for breath, tears streaming down your face. 

“You don’t... believe in The Force?” 

Rolling onto your side, you see Kylo Ren crouching over you, his forearms draped over his knees - a position that seems eerily casual for someone who was just about to commit homicide. 

“Do you _really_ not know who I am?” 

How many times are you going to have to tell the men on this ship? _NO! I don’t know you!_

With your fingers wrapped around your neck protectively, you shake your head once - hating the way you feel your bottom lip tremble, hating to look so weak in front of him. 

He seems to consider this for a brief moment before standing and walking away. You’d planned on staying in your fetal position until he was long gone then reassembling your shreds of dignity, which is why you were surprised when he stops several feet ahead of you and calls, “Didn’t you have something to ask me, Doctor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooo, SNAP! You done stepped in it with that comment about his dad!
> 
> See previous chapter notes for creatures. No new ones have been added here.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gesturing to the silent hilt that he’s placed back on his belt, you comment, “That’s a handy… lava… sword thing you’ve got there.” 
> 
> A garbled sound that might be a laugh, or a cough comes from the mask, “Did you just call my lightsaber a _‘lava sword thing’_? Do you really not know what it is?” 
> 
> “Listen man, I wouldn’t make fun of you for calling a gouka dragon a ‘giant fire worm.’ We all have our area of expertise and fighting… _accessories_ are not mine.”

“This is your ‘impeneratable slab’?” he asks in an apathetic monotone while gesturing to the granite on the table. 

You nod. After explaining to him what you needed as briefly as possible, along with the huffing and puffing you did to keep up with him, (oh yeah and that thing about him _trying to strangle you_ moments before) your vocal cords are spent. 

From the way the mechanics are trying not to stare, you imagine Kylo Ren rarely graces this sector with his presence. 

_Lucky them._ This thought is accompanied by a mindless fluttering of your fingers to your sore neck. When you realize the man who caused the injury in the first place is staring, you yank them away. Or at least you _think_ he is staring, it’s hard to tell with the mask and all. 

“Do you think you’d be able to do it?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. 

Without answering he pulls a metal tube from his belt with flourish and when he ignites it, your face is bathed in red light. Your eyes grow wide, you’ve never seen anything like it! It’s like plasma from a star contained in some sort of weapon. It’s pure, raw, barely contained energy. It’s.... _**beautiful.**_

As it’s owner wields it, it hums a spectral tune - a warning. You take a few steps back as he plunges it into the slab of rock. 

“ _Holy shit!_ ” you gasp. It went in as easily as if he was sticking a knife in butter. After widening the circumference of the hole per the parameters you told him, he turns the tool off and its over. 

Eager and curious as fuck, you stride over to see his handiwork, “Wow. That took you like two seconds!” The whole performance made you completely forget that you are supposed to be scared of him. 

Gesturing to the silent hilt that he’s placed back on his belt, you comment, “That’s a handy… lava… sword thing you’ve got there.” 

A garbled sound that might be a laugh, or a cough comes from the mask, “Did you just call my lightsaber a _‘lava sword thing’_? Do you really not know what it is?” 

“Listen man, I wouldn’t make fun of you for calling a gouka dragon a ‘giant fire worm.’ We all have our area of expertise and fighting… _accessories_ are not mine.” But you’re too busy gawking at the newly finished base of the habitat to be truly offended.

True to form, with a dramatic swirl of his cape, Kylo Ren turns to leave. 

_And I thought **my** social skills were bad. _

“Hey!” You shout, running after him and grabbing a leather-clad hand. He turns and you have to crane your neck back to look up at the unreadable mask that stares down at you, “Thank you.”   
.  
.  
.  
.

You were mistaken when you assumed your (mis)adventures with the mysterious Kylo Ren were over. 

A few days later, the phantom appears from seemingly nowhere when you are walking to Hux’s quarters, scaring the bejeezus out of you. You almost drop the bowl of plums you are carrying all over the floor. 

“ _Shit!_ ” you place a hand on your chest to try and slow your rapid heartbeat. If he’s apologetic, you can’t tell. Even though you’d overheard the troopers in the barracks talking about how he wears his mask less than he used to, you’ve yet to see his face. 

“For someone in combat boots you move as quietly as a vulptex stalking its prey.” You observe, continuing to walk toward your destination. 

“Where are you going?” he falls in step with you. 

“I saw they had cyan sandplums in the cafeteria today, so I took some for Lola.” 

“You mean you _stole_ them?” 

_Is **Kylo Ren** seriously going to flex his moral superiority over me? _

With extreme effort you keep your eyes from rolling as you explain, “No. Not technically. I used my own allotted meal credits to get them. Cyan sandplums are one of kapactyls favorite treats, and I’ve never seen them in the cafeteria before, so I couldn’t pass them up.” 

The two of you walk in silence until the end of the corridor and during that time you start to sweat about what exactly Dr. Doom is doing with you? Are you in trouble? Surely he wouldn’t execute you over some stupid sandplums… _right_?

The shadow that is Kylo Ren turns down the hallway Hux’s quarter’s are in with you and your stomach plummets. “Are you… going to see the General too?” 

Without even looking your way Ren answers, “The General isn’t in his quarters.” 

_Okaaaaay. That’s not helpful._

As if he’d read your mind (sidebar: you wonder, _can he read my mind?_ ) he answers, “I thought I would come see how the habitat turned out.” 

Before you can stop it, a snort comes out of your sinuses. You clap a hand over your mouth, but notice from your periphery that he’s turned to look at you. 

_**Shit.** Fuck. Now I know I’m in trouble. _

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It just caught me off guard is all.” You try to explain. 

“What caught you off guard?” 

“Hearing you say you wanted to ‘ _see how the habitat turned out_ ,’ through that scary mask.” 

At this point you arrive at the closed doors of Hux’s quarters. Without thinking, you ring the bell just as your companion reminds you, “As I said earlier, he’s not in his quarters.” 

“Oh…,” you deflate, “I guess I took this trip here for noth-,” stopping short when Kylo Ren holds out his hand and flicks his wrist, sliding the door open with absolutely no contact. 

_Well I’ll be damned...._

“Huh!” you huff as you walk in after him, looking around at the empty dwelling in a semi-daze, “Won’t the General be upset that you broke into his space?” 

Though you can’t see his facial expression, you can sense a sort of amusement rolling off him, “I’m counting on it.” 

You hold up your free hand in surrender, “I just want to give Lola some sandplums, I don’t want to be on his bad side.” 

The memory of Hux threatening to have you killed crosses your mind and you swallow hard. 

“He can’t hurt you. Not now.” 

You frown at the mask, “Are you always so cryptic?” 

“Get on with it.” he nods toward your bowl of sandplums and you take them to the study where Lola’s habitat is, Ren at your heels. 

With the new, exponentially larger terrarium, the room feels cramped. But Lola’s appetite and complexion have already greatly improved, even after two days. You know he can sense his treat as you walk in because his head pops up out of the sinkhole and he flicks out his long tongue - which is now the healthy dark green color it’s supposed to be. 

“Oh, hello there,” you greet him while you reach down to pick him up. Smelling the fruit on your fingers, he jumps right into your hands. “Kapactyls have olfactory lobes seven times the size of ours.” You announce proudly and flash Ren a look like: _isn’t that the coolest thing you’ve heard all day?_

“I thought you were an expert on bugs.” 

Popping a plum into Lola’s greedy mouth you answer, “I am. But I’ve been brushing up on kapactyls recently,” tilting your head toward the creature that has just started climbing the sleeve of your shirt, “for obvious reasons.” Hux has granted you access to exactly one thing on the database: an informational article on kapactyls. 

Holding the bowl out to Ren you ask, “Want to feed him?” 

A slight shake of the head, “I’m not really an... animal guy.” 

“What does that even mean? Do you mean that you don’t subscribe to the Glacatic Wildlife Journal? Or do you mean that you like to hunt down endangered baby kiros?” 

“The whole collecting animal thing is more Hux’s thing than it is mine.” 

“I wouldn’t consider Hux an ‘animal guy.’ People who collect non-domestic exotics love their egos more than the animals they take care of. It’s more about them being narcissistic control freaks.” 

Lola scampers across your shoulders and straight down your other arm to the bowl of plums. You let him take one before (much to his dismay) you switch the bowl to your other hand. 

“Someone mentioned he wants to turn one of the greenhouses into a zoo.” 

“A _zoo_? In _space_?” You balk, “If that man has anything to do with it it’ll be worse than it sounds! And it sounds like one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.” 

Though you can’t confirm it, you sense that the mysterious figure next to you warms to your sentiment. Propelled by the camaraderie mutual disrespect elicits, you continue, “The imbecile thought his kapactyl was a _female_ for fuck’s sake! Should have named him… I dunno, _Luke_ instead of Lola.” 

Apparently the rapport you’d established with Kylo Ren was either fragile or imaginary, because at this he bears down upon you and in a dangerous voice growls, “ _ **What** did you just say?_” 

Your stomach twists and you repeat what you said, wracking your brain for what had been so offensive. Before you can figure out where you’ve gone wrong, he’s gone with a swoosh and you are left alone in Hux’s study, staring at where he’d been standing moments before. 

_The fuck’s his problem?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't stop putting your foot in your mouth can you?!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pretty aren’t they? They’re from Crait.” His voice echoes around you. He says it as if _he’s_ the zoologist who’s been stationed on the planet for two years. It takes everything inside you not to point out his mansplaining with venomous sarcasm.

The next morning, Hux confirms what Kylo Ren told you. 

He wants to build a zoo. 

In space. 

_Yeahhhhh._

Well, technically not a zoo, a “menagerie.” Whatever he called it, he’s procured the space - one of the greenhouses on the “upper decks” has been cleared out for the purpose. 

Lola-definitely-not-Luke’s habitat has already been moved into the huge glass-igloo room by the time Hux is showing you around. The only other animal so far is a vulptex, curled up in a ball in its large empty glass enclosure. 

While you look at it, Hux approaches you. “Pretty aren’t they? They’re from Crait.” His voice echoes around you. He says it as if _he’s_ the zoologist who’s been stationed on the planet for two years. It takes everything inside you not to point out his mansplaining with venomous sarcasm. 

Hux directs your attention to a small shack in the back corner of the room. The front half is a long rectangular room of empty shelves, and if you had to guess, from the smell of rust and dirt, it formerly housed garden tools. The back half is a small one bedroom dwelling. 

“This will be your new home.” he announces, grandly gesturing about the room. 

You have no idea how to react to this news. On one hand, it’s a huge step up from the communal space of the barracks. On the other, it jerks you out of your recent denial that your stay on the Star Destroyer is more… _permanent_ in nature. 

“I’m going to make you the keeper of my menagerie.” The tone of the General’s voice implies he expects your gratitude, which makes you not want to show any. 

Alas, the nagging voice in the back of your mind that reminds you that he could have you killed has you grunting a, “Thank you.” 

“If you start to build up trust, I’ll even look into letting you procure some new additions.” Hux pats you on the head, and you clench your jaw to keep from biting him. Then he leaves you alone in your new “home.” 

Though the place is new and clean, with shiny white tile on the floor and walls, it’s small - not even a fraction of the size of Hux’s. Still, there’s a kitchenette and a full-sized bed in the bedroom. It’s the empty bookshelves that start to form the ache in the center of your chest. 

All your volumes of _Comparative Physiology: Animals of The Galaxy and Beyond_ , the encyclopedias, the stacks of scientific journals. Where were they now? Sitting alone in the shelves on Crait? Had they been blown up? Would you ever see them again?

When you can’t bear to look at the empty bookshelf a moment longer, you walk out and into the menagerie, following the stone walkway to Lola’s habitat. You can only see the tip of his nose sticking out of the sinkhole. 

Movement from the adjacent “exhibit” draws your attention. 

_The vulptex._

_Hux must’ve gotten it when they went to Crait. But where was it all this time?_

Its gnawing on its front paw. Tapping on the glass, you try to get the poor creature’s attention. Gnawing is a stress response. The crystal carnivore raises its frosty blue eyes to yours. They’re sad. Pleading. It breaks your heart.

“Hi,” it doesn’t feel as weird as it should, talking to an animal that can’t talk back. Then again, you've had years of practice. The vulptex rises and trots over to the plexiglass, looking directly at you. It sniffs at the glass, “This isn’t where you belong.” A surge of emotion wells in your throat, making your next words come out thick, “I don’t belong here either. He’s keeping us here as his pets… away from our natural habitats.” 

Tears are streaming down your face at this point and you wipe your nose with the back of your hand, “We’re not built for _this_ …,” you gesture between you and the animal, who cocks its head to the side curiously, “Being trapped up in space somewhere. Being prisoners.” 

The hiss of the door opening followed by the heavy thud of boots has you rapidly swiping at your face with your sleeves. Although it will be obvious you’ve been crying, you don’t want to lose all your dignity. You look up just as Kylo Ren comes into view. 

He stops short and you sense he’s surprised to see you there. 

“Are you looking for Hux?” 

He nods once, refusing to take his eyes (or at least the visor where you assume his eyes are) off of your face. 

“He’s not here.” 

You look down at the ground, studying the large stones that make up the pathway. Creeping thyme has been planted between them to make it look like you just stumbled upon this magical domed animal prison in the forest. It’s so ridiculous you almost want to laugh. _Almost._

When you look up again, Ren is gone. You make your way back to your new “home”. Fling yourself on the bed, and for the first time since arriving on the ship, you let yourself really cry. Body shaking, piteous sobs - the kind that, like a good lay, leave you exhausted and sore for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon creatures mentioned: vulptex


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it’s been a minute since you’ve cared about things like brushing your hair, or changing clothes, or… _bathing_. But you won’t let him distract you from the issue at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asogians = E.T. species. 
> 
> Also, prepare yourself for more pseudoscience! Hooray!

From your training in biology, you know there are several species who have adapted the ability to communicate by a concept known as transference. Asogians, for example, are able to communicate in times of need by creating a bridge between themselves and the individual in which they wish to communicate with. The recipient of the Asogian bridge will feel the same emotions, and at times even experience the same physiological symptoms of the communicator. 

As far as you know, vulptices aren’t able to transfer. But you and the vulpex on the Star Destroyer seem to be sharing many of the same symptoms - both emotional and physical. Neither of you are very interested in food or activities - prone to long periods of watching the wall or ceiling. In addition, you both are experiencing more fatigue than normal, sleeping for over twelve hours a day, and if you find yourself pacing the menagerie - you catch the vulptex doing the same in her enclosure. 

“Are you trying to tell me something, Gertie?” This is what you’d taken to calling the captive over the last couple of weeks, “Or is this just because we’re both going stir-crazy in our little prisons?” 

On a huff, Gertie deflated, sprawling out on the floor, placing her chin between her paws and looking up at you with sleepy eyes. Instantly you feel tired, as if someone had pulled the plug on your store of energy and it was rapidly draining away.

“Me too, girl,” you stretch and yawn the whole way back to your quarters - barely staying awake long enough to crawl halfway into bed.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Several hours later you are awoken by a clatter, or a crash, or a… smash? You sit spine-stiff on the edge of the bed, listening with intensity for what it was that woke you up. Right when you’re about to write the noise off as a dream and crawl back to bed, you hear voices. 

When you get into the menagerie you can hear there are two people talking…. No, two people _arguing._

“You put it in and I’ll close it.” 

“No way!” It’s two stormtroopers. They’re holding a large sack between the two of them, and it’s moving. No, it's writhing. “ _I’m_ not putting it in. _You_ do it!” 

“How about we both do it. We loosen the bag, throw it in and close the lid.” 

The second one nods and you watch as they loosen the ties (keeping their hands gripped around the top), count to three, and toss it into a large sand-filled terrarium with a dull _thunk_. You jog over as they clamber to get the top closed, hoping to get a better look at what’s in the bag - to welcome your new fellow inmate. 

“Good luck.” One of the ‘troopers says to you in farewell, his tone a warning. 

You press your face against the cool plexiglass, unblinking as you stare at the open side of the bag. The anticipation you feel is a change of pace from the recent melancholy and your stomach lurches when you see the blind, blunted head with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth start to slither out. 

“Oh, _fuck **no**._” You groan, turning on your heel to find the idiot who thought bringing a **baby vexis** on a spaceship would be a good idea.  
.  
.  
.  
.

While you storm around the ship looking for the ginger shit, you construct your imaginary argument, imagining every possible scenario and what you’ll do. 

_If he thinks he can keep a vexis here, I’ll tell him I quit. He can send me to the dungeon or whatever or have me executed and - and - and I’ll say, ‘Listen here you... **imbecile** , I’d rather die than spend one more **second** carrying out your stupid fucking orders that spill out of that stupid hole in your stupid glow-in-the-dark face!’ or something along those lines… _

You’re not sure how long you’re fantasizing before you see him coming out of a large control room. He’s flanked by others, but you don’t even look at them, you’re seeing red and completely focused as you make a beeline for him. 

“ _Hux_!” You snarl and when he sees you, his eyes grow wide. 

_That’s right, asshole. You **should** be scared._

“Doctor!” but his shock turns to disgust as he looks you up and down, “You look… Sorry, but are you _ill_?” 

Yeah, it’s been a minute since you’ve cared about things like brushing your hair, or changing clothes, or… _bathing_. But you won’t let him distract you from the issue at hand. “Did you just bring a _vexis_ onto this ship?” 

There’s some murmuring around him and he does a short nervous laugh, “I assure you, it’s fine, _Doctor_. It’s a juvenile vexis.” 

“Oh, really? You assure _me_ it’s fine? Tell me, do you know something about the vexis lifecycle that I don’t? Do you have access to some _groundbreaking_ research that’s found that they actually _don’t_ grow twice their size **daily** until they are full grown?” 

He shoots you a threatening glare but you refuse to waver. In fact, you step up closer to him and keep your gaze locked directly onto his, “There is absolutely _no way_ you can keep a vexis on this ship. _No. **Fucking.** Way._” 

__“Make it a habitat. I’m sure you’ll figure _something_ out, Doctor.” _ _

___If he doesn’t die from his own stupidity, I'll kill him._ _ _

__“Ha!” you shout the humorless laugh into his face, “This is not an issue of animal rights, General. This is simple physics. A full grown vexis can make a tunnel as large and complex as the corridors of this ship in one day. It would be impossible to make a contained habitat for it. You might as well ask me to make a habitat for a fucking _sarlacc_! By keeping that animal aboard, you’re putting this ship and everyone on it at risk. It cannot be contained. While I’m at it, let me remind you and your stupid sideburns that I am not a _habitat engineer_! I’m an _**entomologist**_!” _ _

__You’re heaving like you’ve just ran for two hours straight and you’re half convinced you might be able to summon up enough rage to blow fire at him. (Sidebar: an image of Hux on fire makes the corners of your mouth twitch and is the most joy you’ve felt in _weeks_.)_ _

__He steps forward and grabs your arm, “Fine, fine,” his voice is low and he looks side-to-side anxiously, “Just keep your voice down. You look... crazy.”_ _

__“ _ **I**_ look crazy?” crossing your arms over your chest defensively, “I’m not the one who brought a dangerous, wild, enormous, serpent here.” _ _

__“Okay, point made. I’ll get rid of it.”_ _

__Those last five words are all it takes to transform you back into a worried, docile animal-advocate, “Whoa, whoa. What do you mean? You’re not going to… _kill it_ \- are you?” _ _

__Hux makes a sputtering noise and gives you a look like you’re impossible, “What exactly do you want me to do here? You tell me to get rid of it. I see your point. But I can’t just turn the whole ship around to return a little snake to its planet.”_ _

__“It’s not its fault it was taken from its home by a greedy pet collector who knows nothing about it!” you protest, “Vexi are endangered. It shouldn’t have to die for your ignorance.” _ _

__“This is a military operation, we don’t cater to the whims of _biologists_.” he says the word ‘biologist’ like it leaves a filthy taste in his mouth. _ _

__“I’ll take her.” It’s a testament to the tunnel-vision of your temper that you just notice Kylo Ren is standing right next to Hux. You both gape at him. “It would just take a day or so in my shuttle. However, I don’t know anything about handling the animal, so the Doctor would have to accompany me.”_ _

__Hux hesitates, tapping a finger on his chin, “I suppose so…,”_ _

Kylo Ren huffs, “I wasn’t asking your _permission_ , General.” 

A bubble of glee starts to rise in your chest as you watch your captor grow as red as a tomato, “I don’t have to take orders from you for personal matters, _Supreme Leader_.” 

_Wait. **Supreme Leader?**_ You bite your lip to keep from laughing. 

“If you recall, _I_ was the one who claimed the doctor when _you_ wanted to have her killed. She’s my property and I’ll do with her as I please.” 

The laughter dies, replaced by acid. _Excuuuuuse me? His **PROPERTY?!** Oh… fuck this noise._

Kylo Ren rounds on Hux, and you love the way he towers over the redhead, all menace. And you love the way it makes the weasel cower. 

“Everyone aboard this vessel - you, me, the Doctor - is property of the First Order. And as the Supreme Leader of the First Order, I’m commanding the Doctor to collect the vexis and be ready to leave for Pasaana in two hours. Do you understand?” 

You’re pretty sure he’s talking to Hux, but you nod vigorously ( _should I salute?_ ) when the masked man pivots around to look down at you before striding away. 

Unfortunately, your feeling of puffed-up justice is punctured once the Supreme Leader is out of sight, because Hux is looking directly at you and the look on his face… well, it’s terrifying. It’s pure hatred - focused entirely on you. And he channels his anger through his grip on your forearm. You wince as he jerks you forward, pushing you to walk slightly in front of him. It feels like his hands have turned into razor sharp talons - his nails digging into your flesh through the thin cotton of your shirt. 

“ _How dare you_ ,” he hisses in your ear, “If you ever humiliate me again in front of that spoiled brat, I will orchestrate an unfortunate fatal ‘accident’ for you.” 

“Okay, sideburns,” you snort, voice dripping with sarcasm. Your brain and tongue are the only weapons you have right now and you intend to use them. “If you have me off-ed who will take care of your little ‘pets’? Who will protect you and the people on this ship from your foolish notions? If it weren’t for me - in less than a week you’d have an uncontained vexis loose on the ship - boring holes into everything until nothing worked. Don’t blame me for embarrassing you, you do that well enough on your own.” 

“You think I can’t recruit another biologist? This is the First Order. I have a whole _galaxy_ of biologists at my disposal. I’m sure I could find one who doesn’t talk back. Just because the Supreme Leader has a little crush on you now - he’ll forget you soon enough. If you haven’t noticed, he’s a bit... _unstable_. And when he does, you better believe, I’m going to remember this.” 

Helpless. That’s the best word to describe how you’re feeling. Completely paralyzed and helpless in the face of the complicated world of politics that you’ve neglected to understand. No one taught you to play these games, you studied science for fuck’s sake. 

“What if I can find you another specimen for your menagerie to replace the vexis?” Bribery. It’s basic but it’s the best you can come up with to appease your captor. 

At first you think he’s offended by your childish tactic, because he’s silent. He continues to herd you forward, like you’re a domestic bantha for a few feet, but then on an exhale he says, “I like this idea. If you can procure me something I like, I might postpone your execution - I mean, your _accident_.” 

It makes you nauseous, the way you can hear how clever he thinks he is. 

This is the moment that your goal shifts from getting back to your research to getting out from under the thumb of General, and all around rat bastard, Armitage Hux. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon creatures mentioned: vulptex, vexis


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you quite done?” 
> 
> The ‘Supreme Leader’ sounds unimpressed, but even he can’t ruin your joy at being on land. You are, first and foremost, a terrestrial animal.

The four hour ride into the desert planet Pasaana is silent. 

Is the atmosphere in Kylo Ren’s command shuttle awkward or tense? Maybe. But you don’t notice. You’re too busy trying to keep up with the constant flow of thoughts that are flooding your head. 

For weeks your cerebral cortex has been a wasteland, so you’re out of practice when it comes to sorting and organizing thoughts in any sort of rational way. In one corner of your brain you’re trying to coax what animals are endemic to Pasaana out of your hippocampus, in another you’re plotting ways to exact revenge on Hux, and in yet another you are wondering if you secured the vexis in the case properly. 

It isn’t until the shuttle lands, that you’re jostled back to the present. Exiting the craft you shield your eyes to the blinding light of Pasaana’s star while standing at the top of the ramp from the shuttle for a moment taking in the golden desert landscape. All at once, you’re awash with an excitement you haven’t felt in weeks. 

You’ve never considered yourself to be one for theatrics. Which is why, in hindsight, it’s surpising that you run down the ramp of the shuttle and throw yourself onto the hot sand. First, you shower the ground with kisses. It will leave a gritty taste in your mouth for the rest of the day, but you don’t care. Then, you start to roll around in it, practically bathing yourself in it. 

“Are you quite done?” 

The ‘Supreme Leader’ sounds unimpressed, but even he can’t ruin your joy at being on land. You are, first and foremost, a terrestrial animal. After getting back on your feet, you tear off your long sleeve black tunic and tie it around your waist, leaving you in your camisole to soak the real UV light into your arms, chest, and shoulders. 

As you shake the sand out of your hair, you look Kylo Ren up and down. “Aren’t you hot in all… _that_?” gesturing to his all-black attire. 

In a completely on-brand maneuver, the man says nothing and proceeds to walk out into the desert. You fall in line behind him and the cargo droid that’s holding the vexis follows the both of you over the dunes and toward a ridge of rocky hills. 

It doesn’t take long for you to find a good place to let the creature go, on a ridge that leads right down into the coarse grey sand characteristic of a vexis pit. Thinking the job is done, Ren turns to leave. 

With a sense of desperation, you scan the barren landscape, trying to find _something_ to take back to Hux. A cluster of rocks catches your attention and you jog over to them, kneeling down and brushing your fingers over the soft teal lichen. You gently feel for the edges and detach the suckers, then pull out the four inch invertebrate that has buried itself into the rock. 

A shadow falls over you and you twist your torso to proudly display your finding, “Look! It’s a _lichen feathered rock worm_!” Even you can hear the geek-gasm level of excitement in your voice.

“If you think Hux is going to accept a _rock_ as a suitable replacement for his serpent, you’re not as smart as I thought you were.” 

Apparently Kylo Ren knows more about your “secret” deal with Hux than you thought. It shouldn’t surprise you, the man somehow seems to know everything. Defensive, you point to the segmented body undulating in your palm, “It’s not a _rock_! It’s an _annelid_ , a segmented worm. The head looks like a lichen covered rock because it’s a _fucking **genius**_ at camoflague. And not only that - the part that looks like lichen is actually it’s mouth!”

“It looks like a rock.” The Supreme Leader is not impressed. No matter how many times you encounter it (which is too many to count) it never ceases to baffle you how not everyone is fascinated by the marvelous adaptations and diversity of the animal kingdom. 

With a sigh of defeat, you place the rock worm back in the hole it so painstakingly dug, mumbling, “ _You_ look like a rock,” under your breath. 

“What did you say?” 

Though he sounds more amused than upset, you flush with embarrassment at your petulant outburst and shout back, “Nothing!” way too loud.

He cocks his helmeted head to the side and you pretend to see something interesting in the shade of a large boulder to dissuade him from pursuing the question further. But it must be your lucky day because you actually _do_ see some movement on your way over. You just catch the swoosh of a bifurcated tail before the animal retreats into its burrow under the rock. 

During grad school, you went to classes with biologists in all sorts of specialties and you all met a couple times a month to discuss your research. When you were describing how the eusocial phantom ants communicate by tapping on the wall of the burrow, one of the mammalogy students explained how the desert dipodimaids endemic to Pasaana did the same. Fascinated, you asked her to send you some papers on them and, as one often does in grad school, you became temporarily obsessed. Dipodimaids are quite adorable, which is why people are often shocked to find out they are hemophagic - meaning they survive entirely on a diet of blood. They resemble similar small burrowing desert rodents with sand colored fur but their long naked tails are forked, and instead of enlarged incisors for gnawing, they have long, sharp canines. 

Switching gears into field-mode you lighten your steps and very gently lower yourself onto your stomach near the boulder. Pressing an ear to the ground, you listen. 

“What are you-,” 

You cut off Kylo Ren mid-sentence by waving your arm, shooting him a death glare, and hissing, “Will you shut the fuck up?” 

_Can’t he see I’m trying to **work**? I wouldn’t storm in on his top-secret war room meetings or whatever it is he does and ask him what **he’s** doing._

He seems to take the hint, because he doesn’t respond. Maybe you hurt his pride and now he’s butthurt? Maybe he left? Honestly, you are too focused to care. And once you tune out the sound of your own heartbeat and breathing, you hear it - the tell-tale busy scritch-scratch-scampering sounds of a burrowing colony beneath you.

You raise yourself up and repeat the beat in your head several times, and then practice it in the air with your index and middle finger before tapping it out on the ground. When you finish, you hold your breath and wait. 

Nothing. 

Then you tap out the beat two more times. Pausing to listen to the ground at the end of each round. The colony has gone quiet. You’re starting to feel foolish - it’s possible you’ve forgotten the beat, it’s been years after all.

Right when you’re about to call it quits, you see the sand a few inches in front of you shift. You lean back onto your heels and untie the tunic from your waist, wrapping the sleeves around your hands, never taking your eyes off the emerging diapodimaid. Its nose peeks out first and he hesitates. You know he can smell you, so you tap out the beat, closer this time. This seals the deal - in a flurry of sand the horny little bastard launches himself out of the ground and heads right toward the source of the call. Right into your hands. 

“ _Gotcha_!” and for the second time that day, you stand and display your catch triumphantly to Mr. Doom-and-Gloom himself, who apparently did not abandon you on this planet. 

“What is it?” it might be because of the mask, it might be because he’s bored, or maybe it’s just his personality, but the question is delivered in deep monotone. 

“It’s a dipodimaid.” 

Silence.

“Oh, come _on_! The ‘vampire rats of the Forbidden Desert’?” 

Silence. 

“Well at least it doesn’t ‘look like a rock’.” It’s possible you’re bitter. 

“Let’s get out of here. I’m hot.” 

_You don’t say._ You think as you trot after him and roll your eyes at his broad back, keeping your hands cupped firmly around the wriggling dipodimaid. 

“I heard that.” 

_What?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon creatures in this chapter: vexis  
> Creatures invented by me: lichen feathered rock worms, desert dipodimaids/the vampire rats of the Forbidden Desert, phantom ants


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he turns to face you, a jolt of electricity rushes up your spine, making you sit a bit taller. He’s so… _close_ to you. If you wanted you could just reach over and take off the blasted mask and see him yourself. 
> 
> _Would he let me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? I can't hear you over all this fluff!

The journey back to the Star Destroyer is a completely different experience than it’d been heading to Pasaana. Now that you’re not overwhelmed by your thoughts, you can process the present. 

Not a fan of flying, your experiences in transport vessels are few compared to your peers. But even you can tell that Kylo Ren’s command shuttle, like the Star Destroyer, is the product of top-of-the-line modern engineering. 

You’re not sure if it’s the skill of the pilot, or the machinery, or both, but you’ve never been in a shuttle that flies so smooth. Now that you think of it, you don’t recall clutching at the walls for dear life upon landing and take-off per your usual routine. The seating, which consists of two adjacent pilot seats at the front with two benches lining the lateral walls behind, is all upholstered in shining leather. The palette is black, greys, and silvers illuminated by splashes of red lighting. You’re beginning to think these are the “official colors” of the First Order. 

By design shuttles are not the most spacious of vehicles, but there’s still a skinny pantry complete with the tiniest fridge you’ve ever seen and a narrow shower in the refresher - which you promptly take advantage of after take off. 

After you’ve washed all the sand off of your skin you slip into a black jumpsuit with a red sunburst First Order patch on the sleeve that you found in one of the cargo compartments. It’s a bit big, but nothing that a few rolls of the sleeves and pants doesn’t fix. 

Instead of sitting on the bench like you did on the previous trip, walk over and sit right next to Kylo Ren in the second pilot seat while brushing out your wet hair with your fingers. When you sit, you see that a nutrition bar and a container of water have been set up in front of you. 

“Are these for me?” 

He nods once. 

You feel two things very quickly, one right after the other. First, you’re touched. Second, you’re upset that you’re touched. Have you been so deprived of basic human decency that someone feeding you when you haven’t eaten all day is _touching_? 

If it’s possible to do so, you open the nutrition bar with attitude and shove it into your mouth greedily. 

Once the glucose starts to get your rational brain working again, you look toward the man sitting next to you. His helmet - as always - is securely attached to his head. You bring your feet onto the chair, drawing your knees to your chest and ask him, “Have you eaten?” 

“I ate while you were in the refresher.” 

You chew slowly, “So that I didn’t see your face?” 

He doesn’t answer and even though you see the autopilot is on, he keeps his visor focused out the windshield. 

“Can I ask?” And like anyone asking that question, you don’t wait for a response, “Is it like a religious thing? Like a Mandalorian?” 

When he turns to face you, a jolt of electricity rushes up your spine, making you sit a bit taller. He’s so… _close_ to you. If you wanted you could just reach over and take off the blasted mask and see him yourself. 

_Would he let me?_

Before you can gather the confidence to try, he changes the subject. “How did you get that… _thing_ to come right to you?” he cocks his head in the direction of where you’d stowed the container that held the dipodimaid. 

On a shrug and through a mouthful of food you say simply, “Sex.” And it brings you more amusement than you expect to see the way he jumps ever so slightly in his seat. 

“What did you just say?” 

You sigh and put your bar down. _What **is it** with people and sex? _

“What do you think your purpose is in life?” He doesn’t answer so you continue, “I’ll give you a hint, it’s _not_ being the Supreme Leader of the First Order.” 

He stiffens and you realize you must have struck a nerve. So you hurry on to finish your point, “As a living thing with genetic material, your purpose is the same as every other living thing’s - to survive for long enough to pass those genetics on to the next generation. Thus, your purpose and obsession is _sex_. As is the dipodimaid's, and mine, and... probably Hux’s,” you shudder and think you see Kylo Ren do the same. “The promise of sex will often overpower fear, as it did with our little dipodimaid when I tapped out the mating call of a female. He smelled me, he saw me, and he ran right to me, because the _small_ chance of fertilizing her eggs overpowered every other instinct.” 

Talking about sex comes naturally to you, call it an occupational hazard if you will. You’ve long put aside any socially enforced hangups on the subject and know you have a tendency to speak on the subject with a frankness that makes others uncomfortable. And truthfully, it’s one of your favorite games. Like a cat with a mouse, you can’t help but play with him. 

“I mean, why else do you think you’re always thinking about sex, Supreme Leader?” 

“I’m not always thinking about it.” You notice the way he looks away, angling his face to the back of the ship. 

“Your _not_?” You fein surprise, hiding your smirk by taking a sip of your water. Then swallowing and admitting, “I do. Shit, a few months into my isolation on Crait, I started getting aroused by some phallic shaped rock formations. It’s not _natural_ … being abstinent for so long.” 

What started out as you teasing him, has turned into something more depressing for you. What you said is true, it has been a long time since you’ve been with another person - an uncomfortably long time. But more than sex, which you still stand by is a _very_ important thing, you long to just have a person around. To laugh with, to talk to, to _**touch.**_

“Do you know what I miss?” You’re not sure if you’re talking to yourself or him at this point, “Cuddling.” 

Gazing out at the navy and violet galaxy spread out as far as the eye can see in front of you, you shiver. It’s so vast and lonely and cold. You rub your arms, “I don’t even _remember_ the last time I had a good cuddle. I’ve read about places where you can pay to just lay in a bed and cuddle someone, like cuddle therapy or something. Studies have shown that regular skin-to-skin contact can reduce anxiety, increase deep sleep, and improve overall cognition. Which makes sense, if you think about it, because we are very fragile animals who depend upon each other for survival.” 

The silence following your lecture on bio-psycho intricacies of social animals is thick and slides over you like a weighted blanket. Very quickly you begin to feel so tired that you cannot hold your eyes open. The last thought you have before slipping into unconsciousness is: _I wonder if Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader of the First Order ever wants to be cuddled?_  
.  
.  
.  
.  
An hour later you’re nudged awake by a stormtrooper. You can’t see your companion anywhere and this makes you frown. The Angsty Ren is the closest thing you’ve had to a friend aboard the Star Destroyer and knowing that he didn’t even bother to wake you upon landing makes you feel dejected and even more lonely. 

After setting up a temporary enclosure for the dipodomaid in the menagerie and placing him within it, you stretch and twist your sore muscles. Spending the day running around a desert planet with a real gravitational pull has taken its toll and even though you got a nap on the command shuttle, you feel like you want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week straight. 

On your way to your bed, you check in on Male-Lola and Gertie. Both seem as well as to be expected given their situations. You yawn dramatically several times, making your eyes water up. And when you see a strange shape in the old supply room at the front of your quarters, you have to rub the tears out of them to get a better look. 

_Is that…?_

You brush your fingers over the jagged bright red lines on the helmet. You're wide awake now, your heart thrumming in your chest as you look around. 

“Hello..?” you call in a cautious voice as you open the door to your dwelling and cross the threshold. A thick black cape is draped over the chair in your kitchenette. The door closes behind you. It’s automatic, but you jump and look behind you anyway. No one is there. 

When you turn and look forward though, you jump again. But this time because there _is_ someone there. A figure is standing in the doorway to your bedroom. Scratch that, a figure is _filling_ the doorway to your bedroom. 

You aren’t sure what you were expecting the Supreme Leader to look like, but this man isn’t it. Hux called him a “pretty boy,” so you supposed you’d pictured someone with more delicate, feminine features. But nothing about Kylo Ren is delicate or feminine. His nose and mouth are both a little overlarge for his long face, his dark, expressive eyes have a sunken, tortured quality, and he has a deep scar running across the right side of his face. Every piece by itself seems… wrong, which is why it is so confusing that when they are put together to make up his face it somehow becomes _so right._

Kylo Ren is no pretty boy, but there is no doubt about it - whatever he is, you’re _**into it.**_

“Um… Supreme Leader?” your discomfort addressing him in this moment is evident. Especially in contrast to the way you were chatting his ear off in the shuttle not two hours before. 

“You can call me Kylo, Doctor.” his voice is a deep baritone, and you are hypnotized by watching his mouth move. _His lips look plush and soft…_

You close your eyes and shake your head ever so slightly. _Knock it off you **sex-deprived hormonal banshee**. He’s just a hot guy. It’s not like you’ve never seen one before. _

Clearing your throat, you try again - this time keeping your eyes trained on his Adam’s apple, “What can I help you with then... _Kylo_?” 

Just when you’re feeling proud of yourself for acting like the professional boss-ass-bitch you know you are capable of being, your eyes drift towards his. It’s as if they have a gravitational pull, (they are so dark they could be black holes after all) and your mouth goes completely dry when he drops the bomb. 

"I’m here to cuddle.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. No one needs cuddles more than Kylo and science will back that up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your initial inclination had been to baby him, to coax him over with a soothing voice. But you thought better of it. Powerful men like Kylo Ren, you’ve found, have surprisingly fragile egos. They often put up defenses when they think they are being perceived as weak and you _**really**_ don’t want to scare him off now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff because treat yo' self.

After you recover from the shock of Sir Darkness saying he’s there to be your cuddle-buddy, you slip into a strange paralysis. This is due to the fact that you generally have no fucking idea how to respond to his unexpected, vulnerable request. 

A handful of your gut instincts clash and jam each other up. Your throat aches to laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Your arms and legs want to carry you over to him and wrap themselves around his solid body, like a koala. Your lips and tongue and other parts of your anatomy want to see how easy it would be to make that pale skin of his blush. All while a wisp of self-respect that has managed to survive the past few weeks shouts about how unfair it is of him to make such a request. 

The confusing train of thought running through your head sounds something like this: 

_Can you believe the **nerve** of this asshole? Taking advantage of his position of power over me like this. Using my body, knowing that I wouldn’t dare say no to him. _

_But do I even **want** to say no to him? I mean just look at those **arms**! Look at those **hands**! Imagine how good it would feel to have those arms around me? Those hands gripping my waist as he… _

_Whoa, whoa, **whoa**! Slow down. I’m not some crazed sex-fiend who can’t control herself… am I? _

_Oh god, he just ran his hand through his hair. **I** want to run my hands through his hair. He has **good** hair. _

_Ugh. Why is he looking at me like that? His eyes though... why are they so sad? Now I feel bad for objectifying him. He’s so… **young**. Too young to have the responsibilities he has. What has his life been like? _

In the end a perplexing and unhealthy impulse that resembles something of a twisted maternal instinct wins out. He _needs_ this, you can practically smell the desperation on him. And you can’t deny how much you need it too, you’d admitted as much on the shuttle. 

When you nod, some of the tension drains out of the room. 

Your chest brushes against his as you slide through your doorway. And you _try_ not to indulge your overly poetic thoughts about how intimate this moment is, how you’d barely have to move to press your mouth against the area of his throat on top of his carotid and _**feel**_ his pulse under your lips. 

Once you’re safely through the door, with your back towards him you take a few steadying breaths to collect yourself and regain some confidence. You unzip and step out of the jumpsuit, leaving you in just your cotton briefs and a tank top. It’s not until you’re situated in your bed, safely underneath the covers that you allow yourself to look at him again. 

He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. His hands are fists at his side and his jaw is clenched so tightly you see the muscles jump. 

_And I thought **I** was nervous._

An affectionate and sympathetic smile crosses your face. He may be the Supreme Leader, but it’s clear that your experience surpasses his in this area and you’ll need to take the lead. 

You clear your throat and his gaze jumps to yours - skittish and unguarded. 

“Are you coming or not? I’m beat.” You feign a yawn and purposely stretch in a way that thrusts your bosom out. 

Your initial inclination had been to baby him, to coax him over with a soothing voice. But you thought better of it. Powerful men like Kylo Ren, you’ve found, have surprisingly fragile egos. They often put up defenses when they think they are being perceived as weak and you _**really**_ don’t want to scare him off now. 

Mindless of the action, he licks his lips (which does cruel things to the growing ache between your thighs) and makes his way over to you. Before he gets in, however, you sit up and hold out your hands in a “stop” motion. “Wait. My bed, my rules. Agreed?” 

He grants your request with a nod. 

“The first rule is, I don’t allow… outside clothes between my sheets.” You gesture to his body. Except for his mask, gloves, and cape he’s in full uniform. 

This gives him pause. He runs his hands through his hair and chews on the inside of his cheek. Then he bends to pull off his boots. You watch with a ruinous level of fascination as he strips off the layers, revealing more and more… and _more_ of himself. 

None of his muscle groups appear to have been neglected. He’s a well-defined, rugged specimen and before you can recognize what’s happening the ill-behaved, lusty, and frankly non-eloquent part of your mind runs amuck. 

_Those biceps though. **Mm!** I wonder if I could even wrap both my hands around them when he’s flexing. And his shoulders and pecs! *drool* I want to lick them. I want to eat them. I don't care, I just want to put them in my mouth. **COME HERE AND GIVE THEM TO ME!**_

To your abject horror, Kylo Ren peeks down at you and cocks an eyebrow, “What did you just say?” 

“Uhm…,” _fuck! I didn’t say that out loud did I? I didn’t. I **wouldn’t**. Impossible._

You mask your guilt with impatience, “I didn’t say anything. Can you get in bed already? You’re taking forever.” 

He looks down at his black leggings and you make a restless noise in the back of your throat, opening the blankets to expose a section of the bed for him next to you, “It’s fine! Just get in here. I’m freezing.” 

There’s an initial awkwardness as you get accustomed to each other. Lots of _sorry_ ’s and _is this okay?_ ’s and rigid limbs. But eventually you settle into a position that you both relax into: facing each other on your sides, with your cheek pressed up against his chest. One of his arms is extended out underneath your head, with the other draped around your waist. Your right hand is resting lightly on his chest and you thread your left arm under his, tracing the indents of his ribs and muscles on his back with your fingers. 

The skin-to-skin contact is intoxicating and you sigh as a rush of dopamine floods your system. “This is _exactly_ what I needed.” 

“It is nice.” Kylo’s voice is meticulous, controlled. 

“ _Nice_?! Just nice?!” You try to pull back in mock offense and look up at him. But he tightens his arms like boa constrictors around you, pressing you even more firmly against him. 

The corners of his mouth tip up while he looks down at you, and you notice he has dimples. You’re about to reach up and touch them, but he cups the back of your head and pulls you back to his chest. Your limbic system goes haywire. Perhaps it’s his all-black wardrobe, or the way he instills fear into everyone on the ship, or the clipped monotone he usually speaks in, but you get the feeling Kylo Ren isn’t really a “smiley guy.” So the fact that you see him smile makes you feel all fluttery in your gut. Would it be over-the-top to say it felt like a gift? _Yes, yes it would (but it **totally** does). _

“It’s _really_ nice.” He concedes and you have to bite your lip to contain the grin spreading out on your own lips. 

There in the warmth, comfort, and safety of his arms you start to feel yourself drifting off to sleep. 

“You never told me the other rules of your bed. What are they?” 

“Oh...,” you say, feeling sheepish, “It’s more of a make-up-as-I-go-along type thing.” 

If you thought getting a smile was a gift, hearing him laugh is like… it’s like waking up on Winter Fete to see the brand new microscope you’d been asking for all year. Not only can you _hear_ his laugh, but because you’re pressed up against his chest, you can **feel** the vibrations under your skin. 

_I wonder how long he’ll stay there - under my skin._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux’s words remind you not only of _where_ you are, but _who_ you are, and what your “job” is here. This, along with the artificial gravity of the ship, rip you right off your dopamine cloud and you come crashing back down to reality.

Upon waking up, it takes you a good thirty seconds to get your bearings. There’s an inexplicable hollow feeling inside of you (other than hunger) and you’re not sure if the emptiness is just from being a captive of the First Order, or because something is missing.

_No, not some **thing** , some **one**._

Kylo is gone and although you wish he wasn’t, you choose not to read too far into this. 

Right off the top of your head you can think of over half a dozen reasons why he’d sneak out before you woke up: nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea, a desire to maintain his badass reputation (thus not getting caught in a cuddle session), Supreme Leader responsibilities, or maybe he wanted a donut...

_Oh! Maybe he’s getting **me** a donut! _

You wave the notion away. You know better than to get your hopes up when it comes to deep fried carbohydrates. Still, with thoughts of breakfast your stomach rumbles and you’re waltzing out the door ten minutes later determined to find some pastries in the cafeteria. 

This is the first time on the Star Destroyer you’ve woken up feeling so optimistic -full of energy, motivated. Is it as simple as the prospect of having a friend on board? Could you call Kylo Ren your friend? Maybe snuggle-buddy? 

Either way, it’s nice to feel like there’s someone you can turn to. Not just anyone, but someone in a position of power. Over time you might even be able to ask him to let you contact the Galactic Science Foundation, or do your own research, or even return you back to Crait. 

As with the donuts, you don’t want to have too high of expectations. But your heart (or more accurately your medial orbitofrontal cortex) has already run away with the idea and you can’t stop the hope that is building in you. 

… but a certain red-headed general can. 

“Ah, Doctor!” Hux calls. He is standing in front of the temporary dipodimaid enclosure, hands clasped behind his back, “I was wondering when you were going to emerge. Long night?” 

Your steps falter and you examine the man’s face for signs of double-entendre. Did Hux know that Kylo was at your quarters last night? If he did what would that mean for you? Or for Kylo? His face is unreadable. 

“Just exhausted from capturing your new addition,” your smile is sickly sweet and you hate yourself a little for it. 

“Yes. About that… _what_ is it?” 

You spend several minutes describing the dipodimaid to the General. When you start getting over-enthusiastic by the details of it’s diet and it’s unique physiology - as you tend to do, his smile grows thin. 

He cuts you off with a stilted, “It’ll suffice, I suppose.” 

_Oh, will it ‘suffice’? God, what a **prick.**_

You clench your teeth, but remain determined to keep up your good mood. “Welp! If you’re done, I was just on my way to get breakfast.” 

“No. I don't think you were. I’ll have someone send up a nutritional supplement for you. I need you to get this habitat done and the one for the vulptex before the end of the day. I have an exotic animal dealer coming aboard tomorrow and I need you to be completely available for whatever I get from him.” 

Hux’s words remind you not only of _where_ you are, but _who_ you are, and what your “job” is here. This, along with the artificial gravity of the ship, rip you right off your dopamine cloud and you come crashing back down to reality. 

Once he leaves, the vast walls of the menagerie start to close in on you like it’s a garbage compactor. Okay, not _literally_ , but you start to feel trapped. This place, this menagerie, your prison is an insult to every single personal principle you hold dear. 

Freedom, the choice to live in your natural habitat, the pursuit of breakfast pastries, and above all a healthy respect for all living things - these values are nonexistent here. 

As the hours pass, your feelings of being trapped morph into full blown claustrophobia. Though it’s not explicitly stated, you’re not allowed to leave until the habitats are done. The guards bring you the tools and supplies you need to construct more “appropriate” habitats for the two animals. You do it, not for Hux, but for Male-Lola, Gertie, and Spike which, you think, is a good name for the vampire rat. However, since this is a _military_ vessel and it’s priorities aren’t animal conservation and welfare, it’s impossible to build any of them a truly suitable habitat. 

By the time you are placing Gertie the vulptex in her new underwhelming home, your anxiety reaches a climax. You have to get out of here, even if it is just for an hour or so. You need to regain some sort of semblance of control (real or imagined) if you’re going to keep building these depressing animal prisons. 

After you secure her cage, you walk to the door of the menagerie and open it. The guard quickly informs you of what you already knew, “Sorry, but you can’t leave.” 

You put on your best innocent face, “Oh, no no. I’m not trying to leave. Can you tell Kylo Ren that I need to see him?” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that won’t be possible.” 

_Did he just call me… **ma’am?!** _

Gritting your teeth you try a different tactic: fear. “Do you think the Supreme Leader of the First Order would like to find out that _Hux’s_ orders are being valued above his?” 

“You misunderstand my meaning. It won’t be possible because the Supreme Leader isn’t on the ship. He left this morning.” 

_Oh._

“Where did he go? When will he be back?” 

He shrugs, “Not sure. That information is classified. But he’s usually gone at least a week, ma’am.” 

“ _Doctor_. You can call me _Doctor_.” You snap before stomping away like an angsty teenager. 

How **naive** you’ve been to consider Kylo Ren your friend just because you let him into your bed for some therapeutic touching. If anything, by having that little cuddle session with him you’ve probably shot yourself in the foot in terms of having any sort of platonic relationship with him. 

You can hear your Aunt Georgia’s voice now, “Mysterious men are either boring or dangerous. Never think you’re ‘special’ because they trust you.” 

_Damn you, Kylo Ren! I hope I never see your beautiful mysterious eyes again._

How many times do you have to tell yourself this before you believe it? You don’t know, but you decide you won’t stop until you do. 

In the meantime, you start to come to terms with your fate. Really, your lot is no different than it had been before your trip to Pasaana with Kylo. In other words: it’s hopeless. 

You’re alone here, Hux’s prisoner, and you must do his bidding. In a curious turn of events, this cures your claustrophobia. When you thought you had a powerful advocate on your side, it made it difficult to act in a way that went against your morals. But now that you know you are just as alone as ever, you go into survival mode - and there is no room for morals in survival mode.  
.  
.  
.  
That evening the General walks in to examine the habitats. He nods at them as if he knows what he’s looking for and approves. 

“So, what sort of animals are you expecting this dealer to bring aboard?” You’re hoping to get a better idea of what you should prepare for. 

Hux flashes you a mischievous smile and you hope you hide your cringe well enough. ( _Oh. There’s also little room for sarcasm, snark, or sass of any kind in survival mode - fyi._ ) “That’s what’s so exciting. I have no idea!” 

“I was thinking…,” You take a deep breath and place a tombstone on your murdered pride, “If I’m going to be doing this for the foreseeable future, it might help me if I can have access to some books?” 

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Aren’t you some sort of _expert_? Isn’t that why you have the title _Doctor_?” 

_How many times am I going to have to explain this?_

“I’m an expert in _entomology_ , so unless you want to turn this place into an exotic butterfly house, I’ll need some reference texts.” Part of you crosses your fingers that he actually goes for the giant butterfly house idea. Honestly, you could get behind that _hard_. 

“Hmmm, your work _is_ lacking. So, if you think it’ll help you improve…,” 

_Ooof._

_**Ha!** Just kidding, remember how I just buried my pride? (RIP pride)_

He watches you carefully to see how this lands. But since you’re pretty sure he’s a sadist and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, you sculpt your face into the picture of patience. 

His pinched face twitches. 

“Give me a list tomorrow.” 

It’s the small victories, like this, that will make your life as his prisoner bearable. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But that night when you fall asleep you have a throbbing finger, a fear you might not wake up in the morning, and a feeling of loneliness so intense you wonder if you even care if you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: reader experiencing some pretty dramatic angst/depression in a section of this chapter.

Sycodids were a species of venomous arachnids that were known for primarily two things: spinning the most beautiful, intricate webs with a magenta colored silk, and having one of the most venomous bites in the galaxy. A bite from an adult sycodid could kill a full grown man in less than two hours. 

Fortunately for arachnophobes but unfortunately for entomologists ( _le sigh_ ), sycodids were endemic to Scarif. A planet that was blown to bits before you were born. And along with it, the sycodids. 

Or so you thought…

“Is this what I _think_ it is?” You gape down at the small glass box Hux has delivered to the menagerie. Inside the box is a network of magenta netting and sitting in the corner you see a bulbous abdomen of the same color. The hallmark of four tiny perfect black triangles placed in a line around the thorax is what has you on the verge of hyperventilating. 

Hux nods, a smug smile on his face, “A female sycodid. The dealer promises me she’s ready to lay some eggs as well.” 

“How…? _What?_ But they're - Did he - **Are you sure**!?” You _know_ it’s wrong. You know she _should_ be in a conservatory, not here on a random war ship. But you can’t help it. You’re having a full-blown nerd-gasm. 

“She’s a beauty isn’t she?” 

“She’s… _stunning_ ,” you exhale, picking up the box and holding it above your head to look up at her from the bottom, “What are we supposed to be feeding her?” 

“The dealer says to release live flies into her habitat every week.” 

“Just regular flies?” 

“Whatever we can get our hands on. There are always some that make it aboard with the produce shipments.” 

There’s a pause as you consider this. Sycodid’s preyed on a species of glowworm that was also endemic to Scarif. And not many people know this, but it was from this glowworm that they derived the lethal toxins in their venom. They had a unique and utterly fascinating way of metabolizing an enzyme in their prey (the glowworm) that made the venom deadly. Without the glowworm, you doubted the sycodid venom would cause much harm to humans - however, you kept this little tidbit to yourself. 

“What shall we name her?” Hux asks, and for a just a very brief moment you think maybe you like him. 

“Georgia.” You answer immediately. 

Hux tilts his head, looking at you curiously, “Georgia it is.”  
.  
.  
.  
Making Georgia’s habitat was a welcome distraction. 

In general, arthropods require less than vertebrates to survive. You lay down some dirt, plant the smallest fern you’ve ever seen, put in a water dish, deposit several strategically placed branches and the habitat is done. The hardest part is figuring out how to get the humidity of a jungle in the little box, but with the help of a humidifier and one of the mechanics - you figure it out. 

You have to admit, it’s nice to be able to work with an animal that you’ve been trained to work with. You even try to sneak some research in - to test out your hypothesis about the dietary detoxification of the sycodid. 

The first time handling her, you wear all your gear. But after double checking that the guard isn't looking, you take off your gloves and let her crawl on your skin. Unfortunately, she doesn’t bite and you can’t bear the thought of irritating her enough to induce her to. 

Every night for a week you sneak her out and let her crawl over your hands and forearms, watching her with fascination as her legs tickle your skin. But she won’t bite you. She’s just too well behaved, or you just don’t irritate her enough. _Maybe if I bring Hux in, she’d bite him? That man never ceases to irritate me._

The dealer hadn’t lied, Georgia had about twelve dozen buns in the oven. On her eighth day in your care, you see her hovering protectively next to a neon green egg sack. It was then, when you reach in to grab her that she buried her fangs into the skin of your forefinger. 

“ _Ouch!_ ” you withdraw your hand from her enclosure. 

“Are you okay?” 

You startle at the sight of Kylo Ren, full gear minus helmet and cape, standing at the entrance of the menagerie. He makes his way over to you with long, purposeful, strides. He’s holding a large box that he sets down on the table in front of Georgia’s enclosure and then he reaches for your hand. 

By this time you’ve recovered from 1: seeing him, and 2: how appealing you find his face. In addition, you’re remembering that you are 1: mad at him for leaving without telling you, and 2: determined to prove to him how little you care for his company. 

So, you snatch your hand away from him before he can capture it and busy yourself in closing Georgia’s cage. 

“Did that spider bite you?” The concern in his voice is front and center, but you’re not going to let him fool you again. 

“It doesn’t matter.” you shrug. 

“Is it poisonous?”

“No.” you answer, not even bothering to clarify that you knew the sycodid wasn’t _poisonous_ \- but you _didn’t_ know if it was _venomous_ or not. (Or at least venomous enough to kill you.)

“Should I take you to the med bay?” 

“I’m fine.” You turn and aim an exasperated smile in his general direction. In an effort to avoid eye contact (you've got to _stay strong_!) you look at the box he brought in, “What’s this?” 

“Hux told me they’re books for you. Since I wanted to come by to see you, I figured I’d drop them off.” 

“Well thank you,” you say in a clipped voice, pick up the box and turn to walk away. 

“Wait... Are you sure you’re okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving, I just…,” he ran a hand through his hair. 

“Honestly don’t worry about it. I barely even noticed you were gone.” To your satisfaction, you see that this makes him wince. 

But when the wince turns into a grimace and he storms away, your satisfaction evaporates. The impulse to run after him and tell him that you missed him and that you were hurt that he didn’t tell you he was leaving is strong. You want to tell him you’re lonely and you want him to be your friend - that you _thought_ he was your friend. 

Why you didn’t, you couldn’t say. Maybe it’s because even though it's isolated in survival mode, it's easier, and you're scared he'll mess it up again.

But that night when you fall asleep you have a throbbing finger, a fear you might not wake up in the morning, and a feeling of loneliness so intense you wonder if you even care if you do.  
.  
.  
.  
You do wake up though. You are woken up at two thirty in the morning, by a pounding at your door. 

In the haphazard way half-asleep people move, you stumble your way to the front door in nothing but your underwear and tank top. 

There’s a pause in the knocking. And while you’re deciding whether to pretend you’re not there or ask who it is, a voice you recognize says, “It’s me. Will you let me in?” 

You open the door and your stomach flip flops when you see a disheveled Kylo Ren at your door wearing a long sleeved black thermal and… _are those sweats?_ His mane of inky hair is sticking up all over the place, like he’s been pulling at it, and there are blueish-purple bags under his red-rimmed eyes. It looks like he hasn’t slept in days. How did you not notice it before?

You move aside to let him in. As he walks in, you observe how very careful he is being to not touch you as he does so. Almost as if he’s afraid that if he touches you, one of you will spontaneously combust. 

He paces for a moment, and you don’t know what to expect. You’ve purposely kept all expectations on a tight leash ( _survival mode, remember?_ ). 

At last he turns and says, “Can I sleep here? With you? In your bed?” his voice is deep and hoarse and unguarded. It breaks your heart. You weren’t planning on denying him, but before you can tell him so, he seals the deal with one word spoken in a soft, pleading voice, his hand outstretched to you... 

“ _Please._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animals invented by me in this chapter: sycodids


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s _exhilarating_. It’s **dangerous**. It fuels your fire. Now who knows if you’ll _ever_ stop talking?

Waking up with Kylo Ren in your bed is… well it’s _something_. 

The man is dead to the world. He doesn’t wake up when you stretch against him, and he doesn’t rouse when you sneak out from under his protective arm. When you come out of the shower, he’s asleep. When you accidentally stub your toe on the dresser while getting ready in the dark and curse like a sailor - he doesn’t stir. You tend to the animals and come back, he hasn’t moved. 

You might think he’s dead were it not for the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest and back. A large part of you wants to wake him up, but the following reasons hold you back: 

**1:** The night before, it became clear, the poor guy is stressed as fuck. It isn’t just the deep circles under his eyes, or the gaunt hollows in his cheeks. He also had a bad case of the hypnic jerks as he was falling asleep the night before - a sure sign of increased anxiety.  
**2:** He looks so… _cozy_ laying all sprawled out on his stomach, his long limbs taking up the entire mattress ( _sidebar: how did we both fit on there so comfortably?_ ).  
**3:** You like watching him sleep, okay?! It’s sorta ( _definitely_ ) creepy and you loathe how cliche you’ve become, but you do. When his face is relaxed his lips are full, parted slightly, soft and peach against his alabaster skin. His thick black eyelashes are long and laid across his high cheekbones. 

_Ohmygod, did I just describe his skin as **alabaster?** What is going on with me?! Am I not the youngest boss-ass-bitch to win the GSF Prize in entomology? I can’t be describing some dude sleeping in my bed with over-romanticized hyperbolic adjectives - **it’s not my brand!** _

You shake yourself and make some tea. Then you take said tea out of your quarters, _away_ from the man who is making you weak, and sit on a bench in the menagerie with a book from the box Kylo brought the day before. 

After a scan of the arachnid section in the text you chose, you see there is no mention of sycodids. Yet, you observe the bite on your finger is reacting much like the stings of the glass flyers did. It’s slightly swollen, but not overtly so, and when you brush it against something - it starts to itch. 

All in all, it appears to be nothing more than a run-of-the-mill arthropod bite. Although it’s not nearly enough evidence to publish a paper on, it’s enough for you to declare Georgia’s bite _prossibly_ (a mix of possibly and probably) non-lethal. It’s anticlimactic but the scientific method is very slow going. 

You decide you’ll keep this information to yourself. Who knows when she might come in handy? 

You catch a figure in your periphery and startle - splashing tea down the front of your shirt. 

Kylo laughs. That’s right. _Laughs._ At the sound, your minor irritation vaporizes and you feel your face start to flush. 

“How long have you been standing there watching me read, stalker?” you narrow your eyes at him with accusation as he walks over to sit next to you on the bench. 

“How long did you watch me sleep?” 

_Touche._

You open and close your mouth, like a stupid fish caught out of water, and this makes the bastard laugh again. 

Apparently you’ve developed some sort of condition in which hearing Kylo Ren laugh makes your brain and mouth connection all loosey-goosey and you forget all the salty things you'd normally say at a time like this. 

_Is it a stroke? Am I having a stroke?_

Taking mercy on you, he leans in and looks at the book on your lap which is turned to a page on the genus _Gryoola_ , a long-necked relative of a common cricket. “What are you reading?” 

You flash the front of the book to him and he reads the title aloud, “ _Comparative Physiology: Animals of the Galaxy and Beyond: 10th edition._ ” He raises an eyebrow at you. 

__

__

“Back at home, I have the previous nine. In fact, I have every text ever written by Attenye.” A strange boast to be sure. 

“Attenye? As in that old Saturday morning holoshow, ‘Ask an Asogian’?” 

Nodding vigorously you flip to the back page to show him the “About the Author” section where the picture of the large eyed, long necked Asogian named Attenye is smiling out at you, sporting his comical and iconic bowtie. 

“Did you watch it when you were little too?” Your voice takes on the erratic quality that tends to pop up when you start to get over-excited. 

Something in Kylo’s demeanor changes then. He looks out, blankly, into an empty plexiglass terrarium, and his smile starts to fade. 

“Kylo?” 

“Hmm?” 

_Where did you go?_

“I asked you: did you watch that show when you were little?” 

He looks back down at you and shrugs, “Sure. Sometimes. Did you like it?” 

You find this hysterical. It’s as if he just asked if you liked breathing air. 

“It was my _favorite._ Every single Saturday morning I’d set an alarm for five in the morning so I could see both the early broadcast and the one they did at eight. It would be the same exact show, but I’d watch it twice. Most people think he’s just a holoshow personality, but he’s a legit scientist. Like most Asogians, he’s devoted his life to researching and collecting specimens from planets across the galaxy and even beyond. Hence the title of his books.” 

There’s a switch you have that turns you from the sarcastic, know-it-all, introvert version of yourself to the hyperverbal, excitable, geek version of yourself. You’re not sure where it is or what the formula is to turn it on, but Kylo has found it. Poor guy. 

You can _hear_ yourself talking at him a mile a minute about how you’ve always been fascinated by animal biology and then later became enthralled by complex eusocial arthropod communities. You tell yourself to stop, you _swear_ you do - but you can’t. The switch has been turned on and you won’t stop until you’re empty. Meanwhile, the dreamy Supreme Leader of the First Order is peering down at you as if everything coming out of your mouth is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. 

It’s _exhilarating_. It’s **dangerous**. It fuels your fire. Now who knows if you’ll _ever_ stop talking? 

But by some miracle you do. Right after you tell him the story about how when you were little you went to career day dressed up as an Asogian. That’s right, your 4th grade teacher told everyone to come dressed as what they wanted to be and instead of dressing up in a white lab coat or some field biology clothes, you dressed up as a completely different species. It was… problematic to say the least. 

Yet again, it’s the laugh that gets you. Kylo is laughing so hard and so deep from his belly that a different switch is flipped, one that you didn’t know you had. It turns you into a gawking-mouth-breathing-drooly version of yourself. When he sighs and sits back up, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, you reattach your jaw promptly and look away. 

For some reason you think that if he looks into your eyes he’ll be able to see all the inappropriate thoughts you’re having about your mouth and his skin and his mouth and your skin - lots of mouths and skin and even some tongue and teeth. 

You clear your throat and grasp for a subject change, “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Did you always know you wanted to go into politics?” you flash a sideways smirk at him, “Did you dress up as the Supreme Leader for your career day?” 

It would seem that you aren’t the only one with switches. Kylo Ren has a switch. One that tells him to put up thirty foot impenetrable walls. A switch that turns him into the angsty-defensive-broody version of himself. You just flipped that switch and the whiplash has left you stunned. 

He mumbles a barely audible excuse to leave and he’s gone before you even register what is happening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genus made up by me: _Gryoola_ (long-necked crickets)
> 
> Also! Attenborough + Nye = Attenye, I couldn't help myself. *pushes up glasses while snorting in mirth*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, this does something to you. It feels like a line has been crossed and you can’t go back now - or something equally melodramatic that you can’t quite put your finger on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've never written a fanfic and so idk the rules (are there rules?) but Phasma isn't dead okay? I'm sorry but you can't just throw Brienne of Tarth away...
> 
> Plus, I need her for plot reasons.

You have a crush on Kylo Ren. And you definitely should **not** have a crush on Kylo Ren. 

Having a crush on The Dark Prince of the First Order is a bad idea, the man is _clearly_ unstable. One minute you’ll be having a perfectly normal and lovely conversation about the ethics of breeding fathiers. Then you’ll say something about how your uncle lost his life savings betting on fathier races, and the next thing you know Kylo clams up, gets sulky, and makes up an excuse to leave. 

Another reason you resent having a crush on Kylo is that - in a nutshell - crushes **suck.**

First of all, they’re plain inconvenient! They make it hard to focus on normal, everyday tasks. When you have a crush, everything reminds you of that person. You have trouble sleeping because you’re thinking about them too much. And when you do sleep you dream about them… naked… underneath you, or on top of you. It’s a nightmare! (Well, not literally. The dreams are actually quite pleasant.)

Another reason is having a crush makes for bad storytelling. Everything is so repetitive: flushing/blushing/warming, gazing/eye-contact/prolonged-stares, stomach flutters/flips/drops/butterflies (but definitely _no_ stomach cramps. Those are gross and _not_ cute). 

It's like: we _get_ it body. You want to bone Kylo Ren. You wish you could sit your body down and have a long talking-to. It would sound something like this: _Listen body, I understand that for whatever reason you feel you must sequester this man’s genetic material, but you need to listen to reason, you need to **CHILL the fuck out!** _

What doesn’t help is that he’s been in your bed almost every night for the past week. 

He comes late, usually when you’re already all tucked in. Without much (or any) preamble, he takes off his shoes and shirt, climbs in next to you and pulls you to him. You’re pretty sure by the way he makes sure that every square inch of his skin is touching yours that he’s essentially using you as a sedative. Half of you wants to tell him to fuck off. But the other half - the half that wins out - never wants him to stop.

On Monday, in the middle of the night, he slips his hand under your shirt in his sleep, pressing his palm into your abdomen. The skin underneath his hand gets all zingy and you detest how badly you want him to move it up… or how you want him to move it down even more. 

On Wednesday, he whispers something in his sleep to the back of your neck. You can’t hear what he says but the movement of his lips on your neck causes all sorts of nerve ending chaos. 

On Thursday you become… sneaky? Naughty? Pathetic? All three? 

As soon as you hear his breathing deepen, you watch the clock for five minutes to make sure he’s _really_ asleep. Then moving at the pace of a sloth you turn in his arms to face him. In an instant, you become addicted to this moment, being so close to him, being able to look at him without restraint. And like any addict will tell you, it takes more and more to make you feel the same high every time. 

The first night you do this, you just look. You marvel at the arch of his cheekbones and note the deep blue-black of his hair and eyebrows. You count ten freckles on his face and neck.

The second night you do this, Friday, you press your hand against his chest and count his heartbeats ( _60 bpm, very healthy_ ). Then you trace the dip of his cupid’s bow with your fingertips, holding your breath as he twitches and wiggles his nose in his sleep ( _ARRGH! He’s **so adorable** I could vomit!_). 

Saturday night you do something really creepy. You shimmy in close and press a kiss to his jaw, feeling his scratchy man skin under your lips. Then you trace the line of his scar, first with your finger, followed by your mouth. 

_How’d he get this?_ You muse with a frown, conscious of the protective feeling blooming in your chest. 

With a jolt, you realize you’re being watched. Kylo is watching you from half-lidded eyes, a sleepy half-smile tips the corner of his mouth up. 

Guilty as fuck, you start to back away - but he wraps a hand around your waist and keeps you pressed up against him. If _that_ doesn’t wreak some havoc on your stomach flutters, what happens next certainly does. 

With his other hand he smooths the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip and grumbles in a drowsy voice, “Why are you sad?” 

The unfocused haze to his eyes makes you wonder if he’s awake or not. But before you can reply he cups the back of your head on a sigh and brings your face to his chest. “I never want you to be sad.” he whispers while nuzzling the top of your head. 

_Kylo Ren the sentimental sweetheart? Oh… he’s **definitely** sleeping. _

Still, this does something to you. It feels like a line has been crossed and you can’t go back now - or something equally melodramatic that you can’t quite put your finger on.  
.  
.  
.

Who knows what you would’ve escalated to on Sunday night to get your Supreme Leader fix. (Probably poured chocolate syrup on him and licked it off.)

You don’t get to find out though, because he doesn’t show up. 

Tossing and turning all night, you barely get any sleep and when you wake up you’re _furious._ Your frontal lobe is asleep on the job so nothing is holding back your impulses as you storm out and grab the stormtrooper stationed at the menagerie door by the arm. 

“Go tell Kylo Ren I need to see him. _Now_.” You snarl. 

The trooper hesitates for a moment and then informs you, “The Supreme Leader isn’t aboard the Star Destroyer at the moment.” 

_**HUuuuu...WHAT?!** Oh… he did **not**._

“Was this a… _planned_ trip? Or was it an emergency?” 

“No...,” the trooper is being careful and you can’t blame him. If you _look_ half as crazed as you _feel_ he's probably terrified. “I don’t know much about it, but I know it wasn’t an emergency.” 

_You have got to be fucking with me. This emo **prick** thinks he can share your bed for a **week** and make you feel all these obnoxious **feelings** for him and then just skip town without telling you? **AGAIN?!** No, no, no, no **NO!** _

“Are you okay, ma’am…?” the trooper rests a hand on your shoulder and you wrench it out of his grasp. Startled he stumbles back a few feet. 

“I’m _fine!_ ” you turn to rampage through the menagerie, bellowing behind your shoulder, “And don’t _ever_ call me ma’am again!” 

.  
.  
.  
So obviously, you’re not “fine.” And you can't stand it. You’ve always been proud of your ability to control your emotions. Sure, it’s earned you some unflattering nicknames over the years: Ice Queen, Robo-tits, Cold-Hearted-Bitch, the more straightforward Bitch, but it’s better than suffering the emotional drama that comes with true attachment. It just takes so much _time_ to be attached. You spend time _thinking_ about them, you spend time _with_ them, and you spend so much time being **_disappointed_** in them when they don’t meet your expectations. 

Those nights you spent wrapped up in Kylo’s arms, a web of attachment was being woven between you two by some imaginary demonic love-spider. Well, you are cutting that web! (Metaphorically, of course. You weren’t completely crazy… yet.) And you're determined that the next time you saw Kylo Ren, you'll tell him he can go ahead and find someone else to cuddle because you don’t have time for his bullshit mind games if you are ever going to get off this blasted ship.  
.  
.  
.  
The first three days are hard. You’re in full blown Kylo withdrawal. You can’t sleep, you have no appetite, you hate everything and everyone (more than usual). Even Spike can sense your pissy mood and he avoids you. 

On the third night, you finally get a good night’s sleep and you wake up feeling… if not better, at least normal. Rational. Let’s just say you _don’t_ feel like burning the place to the ground. 

On the fifth day, you do some reading. This is when you come across a section on midichlorians and their applications with those who claim to be “force sensitive.” It’s pretty brief, just a jargon-loaded picture depicting the little blobs floating around in a cellular model and a couple of graphs showing a positive correlation between an ability to manipulate matter through “The Force” and the concentration of midichlorians found in their cells. 

It’s exactly what you need to get you out of your funk - a rabbithole. 

With a bit of well-timed flattery, you’re able to convince Hux to give you access to the database. (Also, you may or may not have told him you’d only use it to research potential new additions to the menagerie.) 

Of course you’ve heard of Jedi’s and Sith, but you’d always thought they were two groups of near-extinct religious fanatics who had a penchant for starting wars. You had absolutely no idea how _deep_ the concept of “The Force” went.

You spend five whole days gaping at your holotable. You read articles on kyber crystals, on ~~lavaswords~~ lightsabers, on Jedi mind tricks. You learn about The Jedi Code, The Sith Code, The Grey Code and whole planets, whole _ecosystems_ that have been shaped by these codes, and the beings who enforce them. 

When you're down this rabbithole, you're safe from thoughts of Kylo. And just when you think you have all but forgotten the moody knight. You’re pulled away by a banging on your door late one night. 

_It’s deja vu._

You’ve been here before and you’re firming your resolve to tell Kylo Ren he can fuck right off as you pull a sweater over your head. But there is no broody man at your door. Instead you come face-to-face with the infamous chrome trooper. You’ve only seen her from a distance before, but you’ve heard tales of her all around badassery and resurrection from a pit of fire. 

“Doctor?” She is the very essence of efficiency and when you don’t answer immediately she orders you to, “Follow me.” 

Phasma is a legend and one of the only people aboard the Star Destroyer who Kylo Ren really trusts. Because of this, you have a strong suspicion that her presence has something to do with him. But you don't argue with her. You wouldn't dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars canon animals mentioned: fathiers 
> 
> ALSO! Be patient with the hot/cold slow burn pace here. Remember that Kylo is pretty fucked up and confused which, let's be honest, is probably a big reason why we love him. BUT I promise it'll be worth the wait. 
> 
> \- idk if they have normal weekdays in the Star Wars universe, but I'm too lazy to research it right now so it'll have to do.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much for not being “keen on hysterics.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I'm _very_ loosely following the outline to the plot of The Rise of Skywalker, but making some pretty **major** changes. If this upsets you... idk? I guess... watch The Rise of Skywalker instead of reading this fic? I'll support it. <3 
> 
> Also, I wrote this chapter listening to "Goodbye" by Apparat on repeat. So that's probably why it's extra moody. (Sidebar: hit me up if you are as obsessed with _Dark_ on Netflix as I am.)

Ten minutes and two lifts later, you stop outside a door with two stormtroopers standing guard. 

“This is her?” one asks, doing a curious scan of you. You cross your arms over your chest defensively. 

Phasma nods once and says, “Remember, the Supreme Leader has ordered that her presence here be _confidential_. If word of this gets out, we’ll all face his wrath. Understand?” 

You look between the two, your eyes as wide as saucers. 

_Wait. What?_

The troopers salute their superior and step aside to let her in. Since you’re still trying to puzzle out the cryptic exchange, and you’ve never been good at multitasking, your feet stay anchored to the spot. This means Phasma has to double back to pull you into the room. 

Not unlike the man himself, Kylo’s quarters look nothing like you expect them to be. 

While the space has the same functional sterility as the rest of the ship, it’s completely _white_. It’s no wonder the guy has high anxiety and finds solace in your touch. There is not a single thing about this place that suggests human or animal life of any kind, nothing that seems natural, or soothing. It’s a habitat fit for a droid. 

In addition, the architectural design is irregular and non-intuitive. Upon entering you’re guided down a narrow flight of stairs into a sort of central hexagonal room off of which branch three additional flights of stairs. The only things that aren’t stark, unsettling, white, is a window looking out into the void of space and a black shrine built for an odd melted mask. Every single thing about this room makes you feel skittish and you’re torn between your desire to flee and your curiosity to see what nonsense the Supreme Leader will be requesting of you now. 

Abruptly a medical doctor emerges from one of the stairwells. She looks worn out, and it’s impossible to miss the bright red smudges of blood on her white uniform. 

She’s an ominous sight and the tentacles of worry start to creep into your thoracic cavity. 

“How’s he doing?” At the alarming waver in Phasma’s voice, the tentacles start to wind around your heart and lungs. 

“With the help of the… _resources_ provided by his connection on Exegol, I was able to get everything under control. I have him on some concentrated iron supplements. He’s young, he’ll heal fast. But with that much blood loss… it’s not a pretty sight.” 

With every word the doctor says, another vertebrae in your spine stiffens, so by the time she’s done you’re standing at full attention. 

_Why did she say ‘resources’ like that? Like it was something illegal? What is ‘Exegol’? And why does it sound familiar? Blood loss? Lots of blood loss? **What. Is. Happening?!**_

The doctor fixes her gaze on you, “Is this her?” 

“Yes. It’s me.” You’re impatient, “You’re not supposed to tell anyone i’m here, yadda, yadda, yadda. Now, can you please tell me what the _fuck_ is going on here?” 

“There was an… incident.” 

“Well, I’ve gathered that much.” You roll your eyes. You're agitated, and when you're agitated, you react like any mature, well-adjusted, grown-ass woman would: you become petulant and sarcastic. It’s not her fault that she was trained to break horrible news to people slowly - but you need to know what level of freakout you should be at and you need to know ASAP.

Phasma is the one who explains, “The Supreme Leader was going to confront a Jedi on Kef Bir. He told me to stay back, so she didn’t panic. He was trying to reason with her. She’d found something he wanted.” 

“A Jedi? But I thought I read… I guess I just thought there weren't many… or _any_ Jedi’s left.” 

“The bitch is a Jedi alright. And she stabbed the Supreme Leader right in the stomach with her lightsaber.” Your eyes get (somehow) even wider - they may be at risk for popping completely out of your head soon. She continues. “When I saw it happen, I ran out of hiding. She was crouched over him. _Talking_ to him.” Her voice is dripping with disdain. It’s terrifying. 

_Remind me to never get on Phasma’s bad side._

“But when she saw me, she fled. I was going to go after her, but thought it would be better to get The Supreme Leader back to the Star Destroyer.” 

The doctor addresses you, “Ever since he’s regained consciousness, he’s been asking for you.” 

Your mind feels disorganized with unanswered questions and strong, confusing emotions, but you’ve never been keen on hysterics. You pause to collect yourself and consider the information you’ve been given. 

_So, he’s been hurt, but he’ll survive. That warrants, what, like a level three freakout? Am I still allowed to be mad at him? I mean, she said he’s gonna make it. But… he **is** asking for me, which, I must admit, is **very** sweet. _

You’re on the fence about how you’re going to play it until Phasma takes you up the staircase that leads to his bedroom and you see him. 

So much for not being “keen on hysterics.” 

You clap your hands over your mouth to stifle the gasp. If Kylo was pale before, he’s positively hypoxic now, titanium white with a greenish-blue hue. The edges of his mouth are cyanotic and he’s covered in a fine mist of sweat. Though his eyes are closed, his brows are knit together in pain. There are several machines he is hooked up to and a large bandage wrapped tightly across his abdomen. 

You don’t remember how you get to his side, but you’re there with your fingers flitting restlessly above him. You long to touch him but you’re scared you’ll hurt him. Kylo solves your dilemma by catching your hand in his and bringing it to his cheek. 

His eyes are barely open, “You came.” 

_Of course I fucking came. Don’t you know? I’m **attached** to you. I’m **addicted** to you. I tried not to be, but here I am. _

But you don’t say these words out loud. Instead, you laugh through your tears - oh yeah, you’re crying ( _when did that happen?_ ) “I didn’t have a choice, did I? The Supreme Leader ordered it.” 

You regret the words instantly. They were meant as a joke, but from the worried downward twitch of his mouth you know they bother him, “You always have a choice with me.” 

This time you take his hand and hold it to your cheek for him. He brushes away the tears there with his thumb.

He’s exhausted himself already so now when he speaks, it sounds strained, “I want you to be here. Do you want to be here?” 

Emotion constricts larynx, making it impossible to speak. So in answer to his question, you _very carefully_ rest your cheek on his chest - wanting to listen to his heartbeat, needing to hear the proof he was alive. 

_I’m so fucked._  
.  
.  
.  
After twelve taxing hours by Kylo’s side (minus thirty minutes to tend to your animals) he finally wakes up. You’ve spent the time fretting over, dozing next to, and worrying about him. And though he doesn’t look _healthy_ per say, he looks a million times better than he did before. 

You’re sitting next to his bed, trying and failing to read a section on kaadu mating in your book, while gnawing on your thumbnail (gnawing is not just a vulptex stress response). When lays a hand on top of your foot, which you’ve propped up on the mattress, you startle and see him watching you, a worried expression on his face. The sight of _him_ being concerned about _you_ is hilarious. _You’re_ not the one who’s been prancing around ocean moons, getting stabbed with lavaswords. 

“Have you gotten any sleep?” he rasps, his vocal cords weakened from disuse. 

Before you answer him, you set your book aside and move to sit on the edge of the bed. When you put your hand on his forehead and smooth out the anxious creases, he closes his eyes and sighs. 

“I’ve slept.” It’s technically not a lie. Did you get any decent sleep? No. But you’re not about to tell him this. 

He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out of your face, “Liar.” 

You smirk. 

“Come sleep.” he tries to tug you down to him, but he’s either still incredibly weakened from his injury or he’s only half-trying because you resist easily. 

“I’ll sleep if you tell me _exactly_ how you got yourself into this predicament.” You cock your head to indicate the bandages on his stomach. 

He frowns and shakes his head. 

You’re not surprised, but you still _tsk_ , “Well then, no deal.” 

There’s several beats of loaded eye contact between the two of you. And when I say loaded, I mean _loaded_. This eye contact has got you waxing poetic about the intricate details of his eyes ( _warm hazel with flecks of green and gold_ ), and holding your breath. It’s only when his stomach makes a loud rumbling noise that the spell is broken. 

Glancing the direction of his stomach you ask, “Hungry?” 

He does a little guilty shrug before remembering he’s gotten himself skewered like a shish kabob and winces. 

“ _Yeah_... I imagine it’s going to be painful to move for the next few days,” you state the obvious. And then an idea lights up your whole face, “Can we make Hux come in here to cook for us? You are technically his boss, right?” 

You’re half-joking, but Kylo doesn’t even crack a baby smile. “Hux can’t know about… _this_.” He gestures with his hand to the space between the two of you. 

Two thoughts come into your head simultaneously:  
1: _So there **is** something going on between us and it’s not one-sided! EEEEEEE!!_  
2: _Wait. Why the fuck can’t Hux know about us? Is Kylo **ashamed** of me?_

“No, no, no.” He grits through his teeth as he sits up and grabs your hands, “It’s nothing like that. I’m not ashamed of you. Hux hates me and if he sees anything he can use against me - he will. Including you.” 

“Hold on!” you narrow your eyes at him, “Can you…,” you pause because you’re about to ask him a crazy question, a question that’s been hovering in your subconscious for quite some time, “Can you _read my mind_?” 

“Sometimes,” he waves this away, as if it’s _not_ the most ambiguous answer to one of the most weighty questions you’ve ever asked someone, and leans in. His face is no-nonsense, “Listen to me. I need to make sure you understand. He can’t know.” 

Although you **really** want to go back to how he said he can “ _sometimes_ ” read your mind and make him elaborate, you nod. You do this because the look of fear mixed with the grimace of pain from on his face is so heart-wrenching, you just want him to relax. 

_Later._ You think, _I’ll make him tell me later._

As he relaxes back down to his pillow on an exhale he nods with his eyes closed and says, “Yeah. I’ll explain later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SW canonical creatures mentioned: kaadu


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a hard time cooperating when you’re being told what to do by a man, even if you’re dying to get in said man’s pants. It’s either some strange reflex instilled in you by your aunts while you were growing up, or a novel case of male-specific oppositional defiant disorder.

You’re no chef, but like any academic you have your fair share of emergency comfort food recipes in your back pocket for stress eating. In Kylo’s pantry there are the ingredients to make one of your favorites, Chandrilan rice buns. 

Chandrilan rice buns had the best characteristics of comfort food: they were quick, cheap, and easy to make, they could be made to be sweet or salty, they were fried, and they were made with ingredients that would make any self-respecting nutritionist blush. 

During your undergrad days your roommate Tiva was from Hanna City, the capital city of the planet Chandrila, and she showed you how to make them. You cook up the small white grains of Chandrilan rice, putting in the chopped dried fruit and hallmark spices, and while that cooks you make a simple dough. You form the cooked rice mixture into small balls and wrap them up in the dough like the tiny gifts of deliciousness they are. Then you throw them in a pan to fry until they are a sexy, mouthwatering, golden brown color. Once they’re done frying you throw them in a paper bag with some more spices and shake them up. 

“ _Viola!_ ” you hold the bag out proudly to Kylo who is sitting at his dining room table. 

It’s been three days since he was stabbed and he’s physically doing much better - suspiciously better. _Does having midichlorians make you heal faster?_ You make a mental note to look it up.

Every night you are brought to his quarters while the rest of the ship is quiet and every morning you are snuck back to the menagerie. 

However, on this particular morning you’ve been allowed to stay - apparently Hux is off of the ship all day on some sort of errand. 

Kylo gives you a wan smile and takes the bag. You slide into the seat across the table from him and watch him open the bag and pull out one of the buns. You’re worried about him, he’s seemed moodier than usual. Quiet. Stressed out. Hence the Chandrilan rice buns. 

If someone gave you a million guesses as to how Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader of the First Order, would react to eating a rice bun you would have never guessed what happened. 

At first you think he hates them and that he puts his head down on the table to shield you from him spitting it out. Then, when you heard the strangled sound emanating from him and saw the way his shoulders were shaking, you think he is choking. 

As you run over to him, knocking over your chair on the way, you’re in a panic trying to remember the proper technique for giving the Heimlich. 

_Do I put my hands below the ribcage or below the diaphragm? Is the diaphragm right below the ribcage, are they the same thing? Why the **fuck** didn’t I take human anatomy? How am I going to lift him? Why haven’t I been doing pushups? Or even just like… a single pushup. Nonplural. _

But he isn’t choking. 

When he lifts his head and pulls you onto his lap you saw that Kylo Ren is **crying.** Not just crying, the man is straight _bawling_ over a measly rice bun. 

Because you're socially broken, your gut reaction whenever something surprises you is laughter. So you chuckle out a nervous, “What... the... fuck?” as he buries his head into your neck and continues to sob. 

Completely confused, you pat his back awkwardly. 

_What am I supposed to say here? What is happening?_

After a minute he pulls away and wipes his face on his sleeve. You watch him carefully, keeping your hands on his shoulders as a token of your support as he recomposes himself. 

“Sorry about that,” he sniffs, “I don’t know what came over me. I just… I haven’t had one of these since I was little. What are they called again?” 

“Chandrilan rice buns?” 

He nods and his bottom lip wavers, “My dad, he used to take me out and get them at the street vendors when we’d go to the park. It’s like eating this unlocked a door of memories I didn’t even know I still had.” 

“That makes sense. There’s a direct connection from your taste and smell receptors to your hippocampus, the place where you keep your memories. Did you grow up in Hanna City?” Your curiosity is through the roof, you want to know _**everything**_! But you try to play it cool - you don’t want to spook him. 

Kylo looks past you, and you can tell he’s somewhere else, “I lived there until I was ten. With my mother and my... father.” 

His voice falters on the last word and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” _Yes he does! Make him tell you! Now isn’t the time to play coy!_

Lucky for you and your nosey altar-ego, he continues, “My dad wasn’t force sensitive, like my mom and I were and he was always going on about how he wanted me to have a ‘normal life’ a ‘normal childhood.’ He would always pull me away from my studies to watch _Moray and Faz_ or to go get snacks like these,” he gestures behind you, towards the bag abandoned on the table. When he proceeds, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. It’s hypnotic. “His best friend was a Wookie - I called him Uncle Chewie - they taught me how to fly when I was seven. They were so proud of me, but when we got home I told my mom. She was _livid_. I thought for sure she’d kill us all.” 

“Hold on. Hold _on_! You’re telling me that your dad and a… a _Wookie_ taught you how to pilot when you were _seven_?!” you balk. He laughs and your heart gallops. “I didn’t learn to pilot until I was seventeen - as per, I don’t know, _the law_! And even then, I’m still horrible at it.” 

Kylo brushes a hand up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, “Maybe you just never had a good teacher. I’ll teach you if you want.” 

Though it’s a tempting offer, you know the execution of it would be far less appealing than the idea. You have a hard time cooperating when you’re being told what to do by a man, even if you’re dying to get in said man’s pants. It’s either some strange reflex instilled in you by your aunts while you were growing up, or a novel case of male-specific oppositional defiant disorder. 

“No thanks, but I want to hear more about this bizarro childhood you had. Tell me, how does one go from adorable child savant to Knight of Doom?” 

Here’s how you _thought_ your comment would play out: 

Kylo would chortle at your tongue-in-cheek wit, enjoying your little jest at his expense and then he’d finish telling you about growing up in Hanna City and how he got to where he is. You imagined him telling you about his mother and how she would just _love_ you. Maybe he’d even tell you his father’s favorite liquor and you would file that information away and use it to impress him one day.

How _silly_ you feel now. How _naive_ you were to think that Kylo Ren would react to anything in any way that would be remotely normal. How _stupid_ of you to think this was in any way a real relationship in which the two of you would share bits and pieces of yourselves with each other. 

Here’s how your comment _did_ play out: 

Kylo _didn’t_ laugh. In fact Kylo’s whole face shut down - it went completely cold, almost scary. He stood up abruptly, leaving you to tumble to the floor, and stalked out of the room. But before he disappeared down the stairs he snarled over his shoulder, “Don’t _ever_ ask me about my family again.” 

_What._  
_The._  
_Fuck._

Sitting on the floor, you stare around at the empty room. The blank whiteness of it all feels frosty and frigid - like snow. The spread of your emotions is vast. First you feel hurt, dejected, vulnerable. Then you feel utterly humiliated and used. Last you feel angry, so angry your eyes start to water and your throat aches to scream. 

You snap your jaw shut and jump to your feet. By the time you climb the stairs to his bedroom you’re basically frothing at the mouth. You’re about to pull a Kylo Ren, you’re about to have a full-grown-adult tantrum. Good thing you don’t have a lavasword or the Supreme Leader probably wouldn’t have his pretty head anymore. 

“Listen, asshole, I’m sick of this shit! I’m sick of being on this fucking ship! I’m sick of having to pander to a bunch of egotistical men who think they own everyone and can do whatever they want and treat people however they want! I’m sick of Hux! And I’m sick of _you_!” 

Hurt flashes in his eyes and it does nothing but feed the fire-breathing dragon that’s been unleashed inside of you. 

_**Good!** You feel that? That’s a taste of your own medicine!_

“The _only_ reason I’m even here is because you’ve _ordered_ it. Every person on this ship knows you _must_ bow down to the mighty Kylo Ren unless you want him to choke you out with his magical powers. You come to my bed and beg me to let you in - like I have a choice. Newsflash, douche bag, I’m _your **prisoner!**_ If I had it my way I would be _lightyears_ away from this ship, this dumpster fire of a war, and _you_!” 

Before you turn to leave, you twist around and hiss, “I want to leave now. Of course, only if I have your _permission_ , Supreme Leader?” 

Kylo looks desolate, he looks horrified, he looks drained. 

And you thought you couldn’t spit venom that paralyzed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you mean they can’t know it was you? What are you talking ab-,” you break off when realization hits you and your eyes grow wide with fear, “Oh no. You’re going to murder me aren’t you? Shit. I knew my mouth would get me killed. My aunt Karen used to always tell me my mouth was going to get me-,”

Sleep evades you that night. 

You toss and turn and replay the things you said over and over. You’re mentally high-fiving and bitch-slapping yourself at the same time. What you said to Kylo isn’t true. Well, not _completely_. 

You love spending time with him. In fact, it might be the only thing that brings you feelings of joy on the ship. But you wish he wasn’t always playing these psychological games with you. They tormented you and at long last they’d broken you down. However, you missed him already and had a feeling you were going to be crawling back the next day. 

At three in the morning there’s a knock on your door. It’s a stormtrooper. 

_That’s got to be a bad sign right? A late night stormtrooper._

“Can I help you?” 

“Let me in.” You recognize the voice at once. 

“Kylo?” 

He makes an impatient grunting noise and with a wave of his hand the door is opened. You back into your living area as he pushes his way in. When the door is closed, he takes off the helmet and shakes out his hair a bit. 

“What the hell, Kylo? Why are you dressed as a _stormtrooper_?” 

There’s a frantic look to his eyes as he steps closer to you, “I don’t have much time to explain, but they can’t know it was me.” 

“What do you mean they can’t know it was you? What are you talking ab-,” you break off when realization hits you and your eyes grow wide with fear, “Oh no. You’re going to murder me aren’t you? Shit. I knew my mouth would get me killed. My aunt Karen used to always tell me my mouth was going to get me-,” 

“ _No_!” Kylo shakes his head, “No, no, no. You have it all wrong. I’m not here to... _kill_ you. How could you think that?” 

You arch an eyebrow at him, “Um, you don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to controlling your temper.” 

With a shake of his head he explains, “No. I’m here to help you escape.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Human minds work best with compartmentalization. It's the best way we know how to understand difficult concepts: good/bad, right/wrong, love/hate, sweet/salty, introvert/extrovert, etc. We group animals into phyla, for example, then work from these groups we’ve shoehorned them in to help us understand evolution. However, as any biologist will tell you, it’s not a perfect system - some animals could fit into multiple groups but aren’t different enough to warrant their own. 

( _There’s a point to this, I promise._ ) 

We even group our stress responses: fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. And like everything that we group, the system can be... _inadequate_. People will say things such as, “I’m a fighter,” or “I freeze,” but the truth is, the response of an individual can be variable with the situation. 

When Crait was under attack, you exhibited a fight response. But when Kylo is telling you he’s going to help you escape - you freeze. 

You’re in a daze as he explains to you how he’s paid off a merchant to put you in a box on a shipping vessel that is scheduled to leave in less than two hours. The vessel will deliver you to a trading outpost where you can buy your own transport back to Crait, or contact the GSF and tell them where you are and what’s been happening, or go back home.

 _Where even **is** home anymore?_

You’re numb while he shows you what’s in the bag he’s packed for you. There’s a satchel of credits, some nutrition bars, several bottles of water, but when he shows you the last two things - a flashlight and two latest editions of the Galactic Journal of Entomology - and your breath catches and your eyes sting. 

Like a mute, obedient dog you follow his directions. Kylo takes off the stormtrooper armor and puts it on you, detailing the path to the loading dock and quizzing you as he does so. There’s an urgent, authoritative quality to the way he’s speaking to you and for the first time, you see firsthand what a great leader he is capable of being. 

You go to your closet and pull out a change of clothes to add to the bag. When you reach to the back to get the nice pair of wool socks you came here in, something tumbles from the shelf. 

You bend down and pick it up, feeling it’s weight in your palm. It’s the piece of the glass flyer hive you salvaged from Crait. The only remnant of your research you were able to salvage. It feels like a relic from another life. 

“You need to get going. Are you ready?” Kylo fills the doorway to your bedroom. It’s difficult for you to meet his eyes, you make it as far as his chin. 

The questions that tumble out of your mouth make up for your previous silence, “Why the secrecy? Aren’t you the Supreme Leader? Can’t you just like… order my release or something?” 

He shakes his head and a lock of raven hair falls into his eyes, “There’s not time to explain. I wish it were that simple.” From the way he glances at the clock you can tell that he’s anxious. According to the timetable he outlined earlier, you’ll need to leave ASAP if you’re going to make it. 

_More time, I wish we had more time. I wish I could tell you I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you I didn’t mean those things I said to you. I wish I had more time to understand the feelings I have for you._

Kylo steps forward and places a palm on your cheek, “I know. Me too. But we _don’t_. You need to leave now.” 

“Here,” your bottom lip quivers as you press the crystal piece of hive into his hand, “I want you to have it.” 

He steps back and looks at it. You grab the bag and take one last look at your little home. 

“Kylo?” 

He looks up and you see his eyes are brimming with tears. 

“Thank you.” 

Turning around you move to pick up the helmet on the table by the door, but a hand stops you while another one simultaneously turns you around. Before you can comprehend what’s happening Kylo’s hands have moved to frame your face and he’s stooping down to put his lips on yours.  
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The cargo crate isn’t spacious, but you’re able to maneuver enough to get things from your bag. In the darkness, you close your eyes and try to focus on the plan. Try to hear the words that Kylo said.

‘ _Once you land at the outpost someone will knock five times on the front of the crate. After that, count to sixty and then use the tools in the crate to open it. You’ll be in a basement of a cantina, so go up the stairs to…’ Soft but burning, tender yet despairing._

Normally, an internal monologue interruption as over-the-top as this would have you rolling your eyes at yourself. Instead, a shiver runs up your spine. You press the tips of your fingers to your lips and remember.

You’ve had your fair share of first kisses, but this one… _this one_ puts them all to shame. 

It’s true some of your previous kisses made you wish for the existence of a time machine, but in those cases you’d wanted to go back and _change_ something - to go back and stop them from happening, or to make part of it better, or different. But this time, if you were able to go back in time it would just be to experience it again, and again, and again _exactly_ as it was. 

His lips would move the same way against yours, with an identical amount of pressure. And when he skated his tongue across your bottom lip you’d still open your mouth to him while you twined your fingers into his hair. He’d still make that guttural sound, like a wounded animal, as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close to him. You’d still feel the tremble on his mouth from the effort it takes him to drag himself away from you. And his eyes would still travel over every square inch of your face as if he is trying to sear your features into his memory before putting the helmet over your head. 

_But would I still leave?_ This is the real question. 

_It’s not too late_. A masochistic voice croons in your head. You can hear the cargo is still being loaded around you. You’re still on the Star Destroyer. 

Here is a list of reasons why it would be insane for you to get out of this crate: (If you don’t realize this already - you _love_ lists of things)

\- This is a warship. You _HATE_ war. You hate guns. You hate fire. You hate violent death. You study _life_ for fuck’s sake!  
\- You are passionate about your research. You _want_ to get back to it.  
\- It’s insulting and degrading to have to be a zookeeper of the saddest zoo known to man at the behest of a spoiled-brat animal collector. As previously stated, it goes against _**everything**_ you stand for.  
\- You’re a prisoner here. Why the hell would you not escape?  
\- A mind blowing mini-make-out session with some brooding-baby-war-lord doesn’t justify staying here… _does it?_  
\- It absolutely DOES NOT. You know more than anyone that there will always be another person who you’ll want to bone. It’s biology. You’re a biologist…. REMEMBER?!  
\- Yes. There will be another Kylo Ren. Just because you can’t recall _ever_ feeling this way about _anyone_ before doesn’t mean you should just be a prisoner for the rest of your life.  
\- Repeat after me: You. Are. A. _Scientist._ And. Scientists. Do. Not. Make. Decisions. Based. On. FEELINGS.

And just like that, the choice is taken from you because you feel the cargo ship taking off of the Star Destroyer. 

_Good. This is what I want._

_It is._

_Isn’t it?_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Dammit, Stephen! You’ll die if you stay here! She’ll eat you!_ ”

The research you did in graduate school was on a species of ant commonly referred to as phantom ants. Phantom ants are ghostly pale with large icy blue eyes, hence their moniker. They are endemic to the Forest Moon of Endor and are a major food staple and source of protein in the diet of Ewoks. For such an adorable insect, they have a surprisingly barbaric mating system.

Like many eusocial animals, there’s a queen. She’s distinguishable not only because she’s larger than the others but because her exoskeleton is all black and she has red eyes. Phantom queens keep a harem. They’ll always have between 7-12 drones around them in what we so scientifically dub “the throne room” at any given time. The drones hang out with her for weeks at a time, in which time they don’t eat, they mate with her on multiple occasions and at some point, for some arbitrary reason, she eats them. _In front of the others._

It’s not unusual in insects for the female to eat the male after mating, so when you first learned of phantom queens in your undergraduate classes, you brushed it off. You remember thinking: _they’re **insects** they have no idea what’s going on, they probably don’t even feel fear._ But then you read the mind blowing research that suggested, through several conditioning experiments that the drones probably _did_ know what was happening. 

This is when you decided to research them for grad school. You wanted to get down to the bottom of _what_ made the drones stay. You tagged one of your young drones and called him Stephen. 

First you took Stephen out of his queen’s harem, and put him elsewhere in the colony. Within two hours he’d made his way back to the throne room. You did this ten times. And it yielded the same result every time. 

Next you moved Stephen completely out of the colony, placing him near it but with everything he could need to survive: food, water, shelter. In less than twelve hours the crazy bastard was back in the harem. 

Then you tried moving him to a whole different colony. After no sign of him for two days, you were sure he’d found a new calling servicing a new queen. But alas, on the third day there he was. By this time you’d developed a kinship with your little ant (on that note, don’t name your research subjects) and found yourself groaning, “ _Dammit, Stephen! You’ll die if you stay here! She’ll eat you!_ ” 

Last, you took him to a field five kilometers away from the colony. It was selfish and not very objective of you, but you couldn’t bear the thought of him dying just like all the others had. 

You tagged new drones in the colony to repeat the experiment (this time you didn’t name them), and you carried on. Two weeks went by and one day you looked into the throne room and who did you see there happy as a clam? 

That’s right. 

Stephen. 

You’d laughed and laughed at the idiocy of poor, stupid Stephen. You’d even gone as far as to joke with your colleagues, “I’m so glad I’m not such a slave to my biology.” 

Oh, but you have to eat your words now. 

Because, it’s you. You’re Stephen now. 

As the cargo ship docked back onto the Star Destroyer you swallow, remembering the day Stephen - as you both knew he would be - was eaten by his queen. 

_Was he happy? Did he love her so much that he achieved his life wish of being nourishment for her? Am I just a female human version of Stephen, giving up my chances to live my life to fulfill some all-powerful biological or emotional drive?_

You’re escorted out by the captain and handed to a stormtrooper, “Apparently we had a stow away.” he explains. 

When the stormtrooper looks at you, you put on your best goofy smile, sway a bit, and slur, “Oopsie! I think I maybe had too many of that whiskies?” 

“Sorry about that,” the stormtrooper sounds embarrassed and pulls you off the gangway and onto the dock behind him. 

“It’s okay. It’s bound to happen once in a while. Did I ever tell you about the-,” you don’t hear what story the captain has in store for the ‘trooper because you take the opportunity to slip away. 

_Did Stephen move this quickly to get back to his death? Was he this desperate?_ You wonder as you sprint through the corridors toward Kylo’s quarters. 

On the way you run right into Phasma. 

“Oi! Animal girl! What are you still doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be gone?” 

Between large gulps of air you explain, “Turns... out I’m... just ...a slave... to my... biology… afterall.” 

Phasma cocks her head to the side, “What?” 

“Nevermind.” you wave a frantic hand and use just one word to explain, “Kylo.” 

“I’m on my way to sneak him out of your place now.” 

You nod and spin on your heel, heading the opposite direction - toward your place. 

“Erm, I guess, tell him to call if he needs me still?” Phasma shouts after you in a voice with a definite _what-the-fuck-just-happened?_ tone to it. 

You shoot her a thumbs up over your shoulder.  
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When you catapult through your door as gracefully as a dewback (aka not gracefully at all), Kylo lifts his head from his hands and stares at you in patent disbelief. 

Your lungs are on fire. And you hold up a finger in the _just-a-minute_ gesture to him and double over, putting your hands on your knees, to catch your breath. You’re sweaty, you’re wheezing, your face is on fire. Not exactly the way you wanted to look while carrying out the one and only grand romantic gesture of your life thus far. 

“What are you doing here?!” you can hear that he’s moved from the chair he was sitting in and is closer to you, “What happened?” He grabs your shoulders and stands you up, searching your face with apparent worry. 

_Is this how Stephen felt?_ You wonder, _Is this how he felt when he made it back to his queen? Like he was where he belonged. Like, even though he **knew** it wouldn’t end well, it didn’t matter because all that mattered was being there, with her?_

Kylo’s brow furrows even deeper with worry, “Who’s Stephen? What’s going on? Talk to me! Tell me why you’re not lightyears away on that cargo ship like you’re supposed to be right now?” 

Instead of answering with words, you step forward, push yourself up on your tiptoes and wrap your hands around his neck, bringing his face down to yours. 

If you thought your first kiss with Kylo was perfect, you have no idea what to call this one. 

It starts slow as you both get over the shock that this is happening, that you’re actually here and you’re kissing him. He grabs the back of your neck and angles your head back while opening your mouth with the movement of his. The tiniest of moans escapes your throat into his mouth and you don’t know if it’s this moment or the one before that pushes you both off the ledge- all you know is one second it’s sweet and controlled the next second it’s starved and bruising. 

You’re both like kids let loose in a candy store - frantically trying to touch, taste, bite, suck, and lick _everything_ as fast as you can before someone more responsible realizes what’s going on and forces you to stop.

His hands are everywhere, they can’t seem to make up their minds. He’s running them up and down your sides, sliding up your shirt, grabbing your breasts, moving around to slide them down your back and dipping them into the back of your pants and grabbing handfuls of your ass. Meanwhile you beeline to the shoulders, pecs, and biceps that have been headlining your daydreams for weeks. You grip them and knead them feeling the unrelenting curves of them under your fingers. 

You’re both playing a game of _Now You Try_ with your mouths. He circles his tongue on yours, then you try it on his. You tug gently at his bottom lip with your teeth and then he does it to yours. He traces the bow of your upper lip with the tip of his tongue, then you do the same. 

Instead of bringing relief, every touch seems to just pour more gasoline on the fire. The ache that originated in your lower belly has made its way between your legs and now has a full blown hammering pulse of its own. 

After he picks you up and sits you down on the countertop of your kitchenette, you seize fistfuls of his shirt and tug upward. But he grabs your wrists and pulls them away. A feral growl escapes your throat as he leans away.

 _Shirt. Off. **Now.**_

He chuckles and if weren’t for your sexual frustration keeping you on-task you would melt at his feet over his dimples. 

“Why are you stopping?” you breathe. 

“Why did you come back?” 

You blow out a frustrated huff, _Can you believe this guy_?! “Seriously?” 

He says your name in a stern voice but leans forward to lay the tenderest of kisses on the tip of your nose, “Why did you come back?” 

You try your go-to coping mechanism: humor. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex and I’m just desperate I guess?” 

He doesn’t return your smirk though. Instead, his eyes search yours. Even though he’s towering over you, even though he’s fully clothed, even though he lifted you up and carried you to this countertop like you weighed as much as Spike, and even though he is the leader of the First Order, he is so incredibly… _vulnerable_ right now. A crack starts to form in your emotional defenses. 

“Come on Kylo...,” you relent, “You know why I came back.” 

“I need to hear you say it. Say it... _Please_.” 

The moment is so intense, it becomes necessary for you to look away from him, down at your hands. They’re intertwined with his, resting on your lap. 

“I couldn’t leave you. I’m… I don’t know. I’m attached, I guess.” 

_I’m Stephen. I’m Spike. I’m risking everything I’ve ever known for you. Isn’t that enough for tonight? Haven’t I done enough? I’m here. Don’t make me surrender every single part of myself. Not yet at least._

He puts two knuckles under your chin and tips it up - so you’re looking at him again. When his lips come back to yours, you can _feel_ the smile on them. 

Although your movements aren’t as overwrought as they were before, they’re no less passionate. Both of you progress with purpose now. Every touch is deep, firm, and focused - like a good massage. You wrap your legs around him and pull him to you, sliding your tongue languorously against his.

When you swivel your hips against his you feel him through his pants. This is when your frontal lobe bows out and lets your temporal lobe take the stage to do what it does best - _get some!_

( _Sex. It’s sex. Your temporal lobe controls sexual desire - just in case anyone needed clarification._ )

While you watch him lean back just far enough to pull his shirt off over his head. You run your hands up, his pecs, around his shoulders, and back down with a sort of awestruck reverence - like you’re a pilgrim who’s come to worship at the altar of Kylo Ren’s chest.  
( _Kylo Ren Patron Saint of Broad Chests, Good Hair, and Angst - I’d light a candle to that._ ) 

You watch the path of your fingers, how they catch on his nipples, how they slip down the swells of his solid muscle. A thrill travels through you when he responds to your touch, the subtle way he shifts, encouraging your exploration. It’s strange because it’s not like you’ve never touched him here before - but tonight it’s different. 

_Tonight he’s all mine._

This thought shatters the reverence and catapults you headfirst into full blown greed. Forceful, disgraceful, fierce, dirty, _greed._

Leaning back against the cupboards you pull him with you - he braces himself with one hand on the countertop with the other pinned against the cabinet door at the side of your head. You don’t know if he does this because he wants to be in control and touching you makes him feel out of control, or if it’s because he’s letting _you_ take control. Either way, it makes you feel powerful the way he sucks in a breath and you feel his abdominal muscles bunch as you slip lower, and lower… and lower - it invigorates you, motivates you to continue. You have all four of your fingers down the front of his waistband and are about to add the thumb when you hear the voices and freeze. 

Kylo hears them too and he pulls back from you, turning his head to listen. 

The first voice you register is Phasma’s. You can’t make out _what_ she’s saying but her tone is anxious and you hear her say several _sir_ ’s and _wait_ ’s to whoever she’s speaking to. 

“I still don’t understand why you are even here, Captain.” Hux’s voice, clear and _close_ is like a bucket of cold water. Kylo whips his head around and stares at you, eyes wide. 

“ _Shiiiit!_ ” you groan in a whisper and slide down the counter. 

Since you know the last thing Kylo wants is for Hux to come in and see him sans shirt, feeling you up - you smooth your clothes and rush to greet him before that happens. But before you do, you hold out a finger to Kylo and think as loud as you can (and _yes_ you feel more than a little crazy while you do): _**Hold that thought.**_

Kylo’s frowning, but he nods and you sprint out the front door, nearly slamming into the General himself. 

“General!” You gush, “What a surprise! What a treat!” 

_What. The. Hell. Am I doing?! I’ve **never** sounded this excited to see anyone - let alone Sir Sideburns. Stop being suspicious. _

The look on Hux’s face has your stomach plummeting. The man is doing little to combat red-head stereotypes as he is the very picture of a hothead. His face is pink, and you think any second now steam is going to start coming out of his ears. You glance behind him at Phasma. She’s holding her helmet under her arm and she shoots you a look that says _I tried my best._

“Would you like to know what I was doing this morning, while on my journey back to the Star Destroyer?” 

_Not really. In fact, I’ve never wanted to know anything **less** but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway. _

You are correct. He tells you anyway, “I had a bit of extra time on my hands so I thought I would look into what sort of animals you’ve been researching to add to my collection - as per our _agreement_.”

_Oh…_

“So I pulled your database history to look at.” 

_Fuck…_

“How do you think I felt when I realized that the only things you’ve been ‘ _researching_ ’ for over a week are midichlorians and the blasted _Force?!_ ” 

You’re contemplating how to react to this. You are no longer in the pit of survival mode and you want to stand up for yourself. But at the moment your body is aching to get back to the shirtless man just behind you in your quarters. You just want Hux to _leave_. 

“I asked you a _question_ , Doctor!” Hux leans in close to your face as he snarls this through his teeth, splattering your face with his saliva. There’s a squiggly vein on his forehead that looks to be at risk for rupturing, “ _How. Do. You. Think. I. **FELT?!**_ ” 

You're musing on the degree of anatomical… _insufficiencies_ that Armitage Hux must be compensating for to overreact in such a way and have to look down to keep from snorting, when you notice it. The General has brought a blaster with him, and one of his hands is resting on the handle, at the ready. 

The fun, sexy animal instincts that you were indulging in moments before shift to basic fear. 

Physiologically speaking, the two really aren’t so different. Your heart continues to race, your breathing rate is still elevated, and your hands are slightly unsteady. But instead of being caused by the thought of getting into the sexy Supreme Leader’s pants, it’s from the drive to survive the weasley General’s wrath. 

“I’ll tell you how I felt. I felt like an imbecile.” Though he’s not spitting anymore, his voice is quiet and unstable. 

Phasma has now approached the two of you and in a low warning voice she says, “General. I wouldn’t-,” 

But he cuts her off. Speaking directly to you, as if she hadn’t said anything, his voice growing louder with every word, “I thought you recognized your place here. I thought you _understood_ ,” he raps your temple with his middle and index fingers and it makes you flinch and cower, “You belong to _me_. I **own** you. Just like I own the animals here. I brought you here and I can get rid of you. This is your _last_ warning, _Doct-_ ,” 

The strangled way the word cuts off makes you jerk your head up in surprise. Hux is clutching at his neck. His mouth and eyes are equally wide open, and his tongue lolls out. Both he and Phasma are focused on something over your shoulder. 

The events of the past twelve hours have been discombobulating and taxing on your mental faculties, so you understand what’s happening only a fraction of a second before Kylo wraps a protective arm around your waist and pulls you behind him. His other hand is flexed midair, as if he’s trying to crush some invisible ball. 

He’s since put his shirt back on and a small part of you is disappointed - a true testament to the glory of his upper body that you’d even _register_ such a thing at a time like this. Then you see his face is drawn and feral, his teeth bared. And you thought _Hux_ looked angry. Kylo looks like he’s on the verge of decapitating one of his Generals by comparison. 

_Wait. **Is** Kylo on the verge of decapitating Hux?_

All it takes is one look at Phasma’s horrified face to you know you need to try and intervene. As much as you long to see revenge exacted on your behalf by a sexy, scary sorcerer you’ve learned enough about the delicate balance of power on this ship to know that it would _not_ be good news to have the Supreme Leader murdering his insubordinates. 

“ _Kylo_!” You grab his arm and use all your strength to lower it. But even when you’ve resorted to lifting your feet and literally _hanging_ from him, he doesn’t budge. It’s like he’s made of stone. 

The corners of Hux’s lips are starting to turn purple. You change your strategy and position yourself between the two men, grabbing Kylo’s face between your hands and begging him to look at you, “Kylo! _**Stop!**_ You have to stop!” 

At length he looks at you and his resolution wavers. You hear the _thud_ of Hux’s body behind you and sigh with relief when it’s followed by some pronounced wheezing and coughing sounds. 

“I know Hux is a tool, but you can’t just… _kill_ him for no reason.” 

Kylo gives you a pained look, “I had a reason.” 

You hear the sounds of a scuffle behind you followed by Phasma’s quiet reprimand, “Where do you think you’re going?” 

But you keep your eyes focused on Kylo’s, “What was your reason? Because he said I’m his prisoner? And because of that, I have to do what he says?” You shake your head, “Kylo, all of that is true. Unless you order him to free me, he views me as his property.” 

The corners of his mouth turn down and he clenches his hands into fists at his side, “I can’t do that. Not yet. Not until I can make sure you’re protected.” 

“Kylo…,” You want to tell him that you don’t want to be protected, you don’t want to be coddled, that all you want is to be with him and to be free from Hux - but before you can iterate any of this, he pushes past you toward Hux. 

Even though you shouldn’t, you relish in the way the General cowers. 

“You will forget everything that happened this morning.” Kylo waves a hand in front of Hux’s face. Your jaw drops when Hux’s eyes glaze over and he repeats in a daze, “ _I will forget everything that happened this morning._ ”

“You’re feeling sick. You will go back to your quarters and spend the rest of the day in bed.” 

Hux stands up and puts a hand on his belly, frowning, “You know. I’m not feeling too well suddenly. If you’ll excuse me, think I’ll go have a lie down.” 

“I’ll take you, sir.” Phasma says after giving Kylo a long look and then putting her helmet on. 

You watch them leave in stunned disbelief. 

_What did I just watch? Was that a…?_

Questions flood your mind, threatening to give you a headache, as Kylo grabs your hand and pulls you out of the menagerie. You remember reading something of “Jedi mind tricks” while doing your research. While you’re sure Hux is feeble minded, thus a susceptible victim, Kylo isn’t a Jedi… 

While he drags you down the corridors and in and out of lifts, he doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t speak to you. But he keeps your hand firmly ensconced in his. It’s still early so there’s little foot traffic about, but the few people you do encounter give you both a wide berth and shoot you curious sideways glances. 

When you get into his quarters he pulls you up the stairs to his bedroom and sits you on the edge of the bed. You watch him pace and run his fingers through his hair and make a series of frustrated growling sounds. 

_Can we just go back? Is there a way to get back to where we were? On the counter? That was fun. Remember?_

Kylo stops pacing and shoots you a half smile. It’s more sardonic than genuine, but you’ll take it. Then he kneels down on the floor in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your lap. 

“Why didn’t you leave?”

You rake your fingers through his hair and roll your eyes. “Are we really going to do this again?”

He raises his head, a tormented appearance to his gaze, “You don’t belong here, on a warship. This isn’t where you want to be.” 

A bittersweet sensation radiates through your chest. 

He’s right. 

“And yet, here I am.” You brush the hair out of his face and rest your palm on his cheek trying to communicate the tenderness you feel for him. Because even though you’re not _where_ you want to be, without a doubt, _he’s_ who you want to be with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SW canonical animals: dewback  
> Animals made up by me: Endorian phantom ants


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re about to remind him that in the vast majority of extant species, it’s the females who are considered the most ferocious of the two sexes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pseudoscience this bitch.

As much as you want to get back to removing Kylo’s clothing, your reactivated frontal lobe and dentate gyrus (the part of your brain responsible for curiosity) are teaming up to create a sort of cognitive cock-block. In short, before you can get back to where you were, you need your questions answered. 

Lucky for you (and ultimately your lady parts), a shift seems to have happened in Kylo since your last confrontation. He’s no longer guarded and theres no sign of his previous defenses. So he answers your questions openly and with no hostility. 

But first thing first: breakfast.

Kylo has a bowl of fruit and a platter of pastries sent up to his quarters and he sets them up at the small table in his bedroom. You begin your interrogation between crisp bites of Gungan swamp apples and sips of tea. 

“What did you _do_ back there to Hux? Was it a Jedi mind-trick? How can you do that if you’re not a Jedi? You’re _not_ a Jedi, right? Also if you can do that, why can’t you just make him forget about how he owns me and let me be free?” 

You're not going easy on Kylo, but he just stretches his back, cracks his neck, and dives right in. “I’m not a Jedi. But I was training to be one when I was younger.” He takes a swig of his coffee (You assumed he took it black and you assumed _wrong_. You’ve never seen _anyone_ put so much sugar into a drink.) then asks, “But to answer your other questions, you have to understand midichlorians. Do you know much about how midichlorians work, in terms of biology?”

“Not really.” You admit, “I never really needed to know about them since most of my research has been on insects and arthropods, and there’s not really any literature on those particular organisms and midichlorians…,” You make a mental note to look up if there’s ever been any research done on midichlorians and arthropods. “But I _have_ been looking into them more recently. From what I’ve gathered, they function in a way that’s similar to the functional units of muscle cells in that they require energy and they can become stronger with training. But they are also similar to neurons in the sense that they can’t regenerate or be created. If you have them, you get the amount you were born with and that's all. Right?” 

He nods, takes a deep breath and announces, “Not many people know this, but my mother was a _Skywalker_.” like you’re supposed to know what that means. 

After a few beats of you staring blankly at him over your tea, his eyebrows shoot up, “ _Seriously?_ Luke? Leia? Anakin?” 

“Sorry to disappoint, but I was homeschooled for the most part. I grew up learning about ecology and botany and biochemistry. Not Star Wars.” 

Kylo’s mouth twists to the side in an affectionate half-smile, “ _Okaaaay_ … What about Darth Vader?” 

“Oh!” You clap your hands, excited to finally understand something, “Well yeah! _Everyone’s_ heard of him!” 

“Darth Vader is Anakin Skywalker. He’s my grandfather.” 

While taking a bite of a danish, you think back to the pictures of Darth Vader in books you saw as a child. Black cape, black mask. “Ah. I can see the resemblance.” You snort at your own joke. 

“As I was _saying_ ,” Mr. Moody narrows his eyes at you, “The Skywalkers have the highest levels of midichlorians ever recorded.” 

“So you’re telling me you inherited a shit ton of midichlorians from your mom?” 

He smirks, “Basically. But it doesn’t really matter how many midichlorians you have if you aren’t trained on how to use them. There will be a variety of things that determine your skill in manipulating The Force. The amount of midichlorians you have, your training, and your natural abilities. Some people are better at using The Force in combat than others, some have been known to be skilled at electrical conductance, and others are better at manipulating what others think - or as you called it doing ‘Jedi mind tricks’. Those are not my niche, and because of that, it takes me more energy to do them. I can only do very simple persuasion and short-term memory erasures and even those drain me quickly.” 

“So what you’re saying is, you wouldn’t be able to make Hux forget something as monumental as me being his prisoner.” 

He looks down at his coffee and shakes his head, “Trust me, if I could I would have done that _weeks_ ago.” 

You frown, but a question you're dying to ask keeps you from being upset for too long. “What _is_ your niche?” 

This perks him up a bit. He leans forward in a conspiratorial fashion, a captivating mischievous half-smile on his lips, “Reading minds.” 

_Oooooh yeah!_

“You were going to tell me about that!” And out comes the next wave of your interrogation: “You said that you can read mine, ‘sometimes.’ What did you mean by that? Can you read _everyone’s_ mind? If so, is it loud? Do you love it? Does it make you crazy? Is it obnoxious?” 

“You mean more obnoxious than your never-ending questions?” He teases. 

You’re about to kick him playfully under the table, but he catches your foot and brings it up into his lap. Then he proceeds to give you a foot rub as if it’s the most natural thing in the world while he clarifies, “I can see and hear well-defined, explicit thoughts and feelings without much, or any, effort. But if someone has defenses up or if someone is like you - with an overactive, complex, and somewhat _disorganized_ thought process, it gets muddy and it takes some effort on my part to get in.”

You’re not exactly sure how to take being told your thoughts are disorganized. ( _What about all of my lists?_ ) But you have more pressing questions to ask, “When you say it takes you ‘effort to get in,’ what exactly does that entail? Can you _show_ me?” 

His hands stop moving on your foot. He furrows his brow and chews the insides of his cheeks, “Are you sure? It’s not exactly pleasant to feel someone in your mind.” 

Your responding nod is probably too enthusiastic for someone who is about to have their mind read by a guy who’s starred in more than his fair share of your dirty daydreams. But you aren’t thinking about that, you’re just interested in finding out all you can about how this all works. How the force works. How it fits into the biological world. How Kylo Ren works. You want to know it all.

Kylo instructs you to lay down on the bed and close your eyes. You do. 

“Relax.” His voice is deep and close to your ear. A shiver runs down your spine and you squirm. 

_Was that him? Is that what it feels like? It’s nice..._

“No.” He replies to you unasked question, “That was just your reaction to my voice.” 

_Oh._ You blush. 

“The easiest way to get in is to create an entry point.” He explains, then asks, “You _sure_ you still want to do this? You don't have to.” 

You bite your lip, but nod once in affirmation. 

“Okay. Think of your childhood home.” 

You go into your memories and pull up a picture of the house your aunts raised you in. It’s built into the side of some black cliffs, with a black sand beach stretching out in front of you and a field of deep green grass behind you. The ocean waves crashing onto the beach are the same ash color as the sky, and the atmosphere is thick with mist. Above your head there’s a pearly, ethereal streak from an asteroid belt that circles the planet. 

It’s a sanctuary, it’s peaceful, it’s safe, but it’s also lonely.

You feel him then, entering your mind. It’s not _painful_ per se. It’s more exposing than anything, like someone has walked in on you naked and you can't find anything to cover up with. 

“You grew up on Lah’mu?” He asks, but the sensation of him mentally reaching further in prevents you from answering. 

You feel him shuffling through your stack of memories of your childhood on Lah’mu. Most of them are ones of you reading. Kylo watches you grow up with your head buried in books. He sees you reading about the shells of marine invertebrates you’d find on the beach, reading at the mouth of a crater about the pros and cons between the iron containing hemoglobin versus the copper containing hemocyanin, reading in your bed late into the night about how to construct the most productive beehive according to science. 

Then he watches you secretly submit for and win a research scholarship when you’re sixteen and then sees you beg your aunts to let you go to Coruscant for University. He bears witness to your heartbreak and disappointment when they deny your request. And finally, he sees you run away - taking one last look at the dark house in the cliff with tears running down your cheeks, carrying in your backpack five textbooks, one change of clothes, a few credits, and your scholarship award.

This is when your head begins to throb. Kylo senses it too and retreats. When you open your eyes you see that he’s very close to you. He’s laying on his side, gazing at you and the corners of his mouth are dipped down in worry. 

After a moment, he asks a question in a voice that is careful, “Why were you in hiding?” 

Rolling onto your side to face him, you prop your head up on one of your hands and place the other on his chest, finding his heartbeat, “What do you mean?” 

Kylo hesitates, his eyes move between yours. “People don’t live on Lah’mu unless they want to be hidden.” 

You can’t help but laugh at his description of your home planet. 

Sure, Lah’mu is rural and quiet, and it does seem like a nice place to go if you want everyone to leave you alone. But your story isn’t so important. You are merely the orphan daughter of two poor field marine ecologists who died in a freak hurricane while studying water columns in Pelagon. You were a baby when it happened. “My aunts were given the Lah’mu property to raise me on and my parent’s will requested that I be given a, ‘scientific education away from the restraints of political censorship and bias.’ They must’ve thought Lah’mu would be the best place to do that.” 

“Are you sure you weren't being hidden?" You shake your head.

"From what I saw, it looked like your aunts were very protective of you. And if they _were_ hiding you, they did a good job, they kept you safe,” He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to him, “And I promise that I'll do the same. I'll keep you safe. I'll protect you.” 

You’re about to protest, to tell him you don’t _need_ his protection _thank you very much!_ You’re about to tell him that you don’t appreciate being treated as if you are feeble. You’re about to remind him that in the vast majority of extant species, it’s the females who are considered the most ferocious of the two sexes. 

But then he sweeps his lips against your temple and slides his hand up your shirt and you forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @AwkwardSilence for the best description of the reader's thought process.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>  IMPORTANT PLEASE READ!!!   
> 
> 
> This chapter is pretty much just smut. I debated not putting it in because it turns out writing sex for a reader insert is really difficult because sex is just... a _super_ **_personal_** thing. 
> 
> I have no idea how each and every reader wants to bone Kylo Ren and so I'm positive the majority of you will leave this being... underwhelmed. SO, there's no major plot points in this chapter if you want to skip it and leave it to your own imagination how the deed is done, I totally understand. 
> 
> Also, it's pretty fluffy for smut - like the pink cotton candy of smut. I've just gotten too attached to my characters at this point to put them through the exploitation of full blown explicit smut (no judgement here, I love me some dom Kylo). 
> 
> Anyway, if you chose to read - I hope it makes your heart happy. Or something. 
> 
> xx
> 
> Evie

Whether they are aware of it or not, everyone possesses an imaginary bell curve upon which they grade their sexual experiences. It ranges from below-average or _horrible_ sex to above-average or _holy-fucking-shit-that-was-amazing_ sex. As per the definition of a bell curve, the majority of the experiences you’ve had have fallen in the middle, in the _meh_ to the _great-job-high-five_ range. 

Right off the bat your experience with Kylo starts in the above average _super-hot_ range. Maybe this is due to the weeks of sexual tension and emotional foreplay. You don’t know, but what you _do_ know is you both can’t seem to keep your hands and lips off of each other for long enough to get undressed at an efficient pace. Which seems counterintuitive because you _really_ want Kylo to be naked and from the eager way his body, face, hands, and mouth react to each additional piece of your skin exposed you suspect he feels the same way. 

When you’ve finally managed to shed all your top layers he leans back to gaze at you with clear appreciation on his face. 

It’s… empowering. 

He moves in with his hands, starting off slow, cupping your breasts and brushing a teasing thumb over your nipples - making you arch and fidget against him. Right before he takes over with his mouth he groans, “ _Fuuck_ , you’re so beautiful.” Like it hurts him, like he can’t stand it. 

By the time every single article of both of your clothing is strewn about the floor your whole body feels like it’s on metaphorical fire. You’re positive you can’t remember a time in your life you’ve wanted anyone or anything more. 

Not even donuts.

Not even donuts being brought to you by Kylo Ren. 

You’re on your back and he’s hovering over you. One of his arms is cradling your head protectively, while the other is at the whim of his wandering hand, which is currently sweeping back and forth on the insides of your thighs. His eyes search your face, dark and hungry and you wrap your arms around him and flex your fingers into the muscles of his back. 

Although you know it’s impossible, it feels like every single nerve ending on your body is being triggered at the same time. The moment is potent and pushes the encounter into at least the 98th percentile on the sexual experience bell curve - and he’s not even inside of you yet. But he’s _right there_ , you can feel him there. 

Is he waiting? If so, _what for?_ Is he hesitating? If so, _why?_ Is he teasing? If so, _it’s working!_

The ache for him between your legs is _extreme_ but when you try to shimmy your hips up to his, he shifts out of the way. When you wrap your legs around his hips and try to force him down he resists all while lining your jaw with soft shiver-inducing kisses. 

“ _Kyloooh_ , what the fuck?” you whimper in frustration. 

He pulls back and looks down at you, a small but smug smile on his lips. 

“What are you _doing_?” you growl.

You can’t decide if his response is the most romantic, most vain, or most ludicrous thing you’ve ever heard. But after he leans forward to give you yet another delicious, melty kiss, he pulls back, brushes the hair back from your face and says, “I’m waiting until you want me as bad as I want you.” 

You splutter out a humorless laugh and groan, “Your ego is making you a sadist!” 

“Maybe.” He bends to circle your nipple with his tongue. You grab fistfuls of his hair and push yourself against him. He looks up at you from under heavy lidded eyes, “Or maybe I’ve been one all along.” 

_Probably._

“Kylo…,” the annoyance is gone from your voice and is replaced with desperation. You sound pitiful, you sound frayed, and you do something you’ve never done in bed with a man. You beg. “ _Please._ ” 

This time, when he looks at you, Kylo isn’t smiling anymore. In fact his expression is deadly serious as he hikes your thigh up over his hip. His lips part slightly and on a long, slow, exhale he pushes inside you.

After this initial powerplay, Kylo completely submits to you, gives himself over entirely to your direction. He matches your rhythm, going faster and slower at the exact right times - almost as if he can read your mind. 

_Oh yeah...._

It doesn’t take long for you to officially declare this sex at the level of _holy-fucking-shit-this-is-amazing_ sex. But then then the whole experience goes completely off the bell curve, it becomes an outlier, or is on an entirely different chart. 

This boundary is crossed when you’re just about to finish, right when you’re feeling the tell-tale tightening in your lower belly. You close your eyes and start to retreat into the rhythm. 

Kylo runs his hand down your neck, and orders you to, “Look at me.” 

You do and when you do, you are overcome with such a strong feeling of… _what?_

_What **is** it?_

Is it just that web of attachment that you share? Never before have you felt _so vulnerable_ , not just physically but emotionally, and at the same time _so safe_. It makes your chest flutter. It makes your eyes water. 

_What the fuck? I’m not the person who cries during sex. That person is weird. No one likes that person. The person who cries during sex is also the person who describes sex as ‘ **making love**.’ _

_Wait…_

You thought “making love” was a term used by one of two people: those who viewed sex in an over-romanticized unrealistic way, or people over the age of fifty in order to deliver maximum cringe. 

But it’s _not_ , it’s real. Not only is it real but it’s what you’re doing with Kylo. 

It all made sense now! 

There was a reason the whole affair has veered off from your usual chart - it’s not the same thing. Well, _mechanically_ speaking it is, but there’s so many _feelings_ involved now. It’s layered and complex and you’d think that it would just gum up the works - that it would somehow lessen the physical experience of it. 

You’d think that and you’d be _**so fucking wrong**_. Because when your orgasm hits… let’s just say you don’t know how to describe it without blushing. And you’re a _biologist_ who has never before blushed over describing something as commonplace as copulation.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then look back at him again, “You don’t have a harem do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.  
> much.  
> fluff. 
> 
> we deserve it after the year we've had tho. AMIRITE?!

If you were to go back in time and tell the you from a few weeks prior that you’d be waking up naked in bed with an equally naked Kylo Ren… you’d probably say, “Meh. That checks out, he comes to cuddle almost every night.” 

_Buuut_ if you were to tell the you from a few _**months**_ ago that you’d be waking up naked in Kylo Ren’s bed after an afternoon of the best sex of your life… you’d probably say, “That sounds awesome! Also, who’s Kylo Ren? And how did you get here? And why are we talking about men when you’ve just _time traveled!?_ ” 

Okaaay. 

The point is you wake up naked next to Kylo Ren, who is _also_ naked because you both passed out from being up for twenty four hours and then having super hot sex. And it’s nice. 

More than nice. 

It’s _delicious._

Not only is he all stretchy and yawny and sleepy and warm and adorable but when he gets up to use the refresher you get to ogle his perfect naked glutes as he walks away. 

An overwhelming fluttery feeling completely overtakes your chest and once he’s gone, you do something you’ve never done before: you **squeal.** You roll onto your stomach, press your face into the pillow and _squeal with delight_. Not only do you squeal, you also do this weird spastic flutter kick thing with your legs. 

It’s obscene. 

Thankfully, you manage to get a grip on yourself before he comes back to witness any of this. When you feel the mattress dip down from his weight, you turn your head from the pillow to look at him. He smiles a goofy lopsided smile at you as he slides in under the sheet next to you and you have to bite your lip to contain your own grin. 

“Morning.” His voice is a **deep** sleepy bass that makes you salivate and he tilts his head forward to place a kiss on your shoulder. He has an epic case of bedhead that you can’t wait to get your hands into, but you can’t because he doesn’t stop with the kiss on the shoulder. 

No, he begins to move systemically down your body with his mouth. Kissing at intercostal space and lower. When he gets to the ticklish spot at your waist he chuckles as you twist and try to get away, stopping you with a strong arm wrapped around your middle. 

At the top of your hip bone he pauses and walks his fingers up your spine. 

“You never told me...,” Evidently Kylo Ren thinks _this_ is a good time to start up a conversation. The man gets you all hot and bothered and then decides to have some dialogue? 

You roll your eyes. 

_He **is** a sadist._

“Who’s Stephen?” 

You half-twist at the waist to look back over your shoulder at him. He’s resting his chin on his hand which is laying right above the curve of your ass. “What are you talking about?” 

“Yesterday you clearly thought: ‘ _I’m Stephen._ ’”

 _Ooooh…._

You flush and bury your head in the pillow. 

After some threats of being tickled again (“ _I know where you’re ticklish now!_ ”) you relent and tell him all about your ill-fated phantom ant drone Stephen and his queen. 

“So…, if you’re Stephen, does that make me the queen?” He asks as he traces figure eights with his fingertips on your lower back. It’s so relaxing it feels like you’ve melted into the sheets. 

You laugh, “I suppose. _Kylo Ren, Supreme Queen of the First Order._ That’s got a nice ring to it.” Then look back at him again, “You don’t have a harem do you?” 

“Nope.” 

“And just to make sure: you’re not planning on eating me right?” 

A mischievous grin unfurls across his face and keeping his eyes locked on yours he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth right into your glute. And for the second time in your life - you squeal. 

Apparently, Kylo Ren has turned you into a squealer. 

God damn him.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
You know it’s not possible, but you _swear_ time moves faster when you’re with Kylo. One second you're breathing the most salacious, indecent words you've _ever_ spoken into Kylo's ear and the next, your rushing to get back to the menagerie before Hux wakes up and remembers he isn’t sick. 

Though you miss your animal friends, going back after a full day in bed with Kylo makes this place feel more like a prison than it ever has before. 

How are you going to manage this? Going back and forth between the vigorous, polychromatic (not _literally_ , as mentioned before everything in Kylo’s quarters is white and black), life of relationship bliss, to this bleak, anemic animal penitentiary. The contrast between the two is so severe, it’s unsettling. 

Male-Lola climbs on your shoulders as you clean his habitat, flicking his tongue into your ear. You chastise him, “Don’t be gross.” Though you didn’t say the same thing to Kylo when he did it to you just hours before. 

You finish up the huge terrarium for Georgia’s babies when they hatch. The pressure of preserving a species you previously thought of as extinct is weighing on you and you worry that they’ll eat each other if there’s more than one per terrarium. However, you can’t make hundreds of terrariums so you’ve decided one huge one will have to do for now.

While you clean Spike’s cage, you let him sink his fangs into the veins in your palm to keep him from trying to escape. He’s too small to do any real damage anyway. 

Right when you’re finishing up Kylo swoops in. Yes. _Swoops._

It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him in his full get-up (sans helmet, which he's holding under his arm), and you look him up and down, raising an eyebrow at him. Two guards are posted nearby, so discretion is necessary. In a voice that is overly formal you greet him, “Supreme Leader.” 

_Supreme Leader? More like Supreme… Lover. *mental wink and nudge*_

You see Kylo bite his lip to keep from laughing. “Doctor,” he nods as soon as he gains composure. 

For the first time you get what everyone was going on about at University. Flirting _is_ fun. It makes you feel like your blood is carbonated. 

Well, actually, that would probably feel horrendous. So, nevermind. It makes you feel weightless and fluffy. 

“What can I help you with?” 

“I’m just here to let you know that I’m not going to be on board for the next couple of days.” 

“Oh…,” Your weightless feeling plummets, you begin to deflate, “Okay.” 

Stepping forward, he lowers his voice, “If I could arrange for you to come with me and not make Hux suspicious, I promise I would.” 

He slides a leather-clad finger down your forearm but halts when he gets to Spike. 

“What is that thing _doing_ to you?” He sounds alarmed. 

You pull your hand back instinctively, before Kylo could do anything to hurt him. 

As you detach Spike and put him back in his enclosure, you explain, “Relax. It just makes it easier to clean his cage if I let him have a little snack while I do.” 

Kylo grabs your hand and examines it, running a finger over the two miniscule punctures. You roll your eyes and remind him in a whisper, “ _You_ left a bigger mark on me with _your_ teeth.” 

At your accusation, his outraged expression shifts to one that’s more sheepish and repentant, “I did? I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize…,” 

You snort. “Kylo. I was just teasing you. I’m fine. Really. I liked it.” 

But his brow remains furrowed, “I’m going to make this trip as quick as possible.”

You nod and look over his shoulder. You want to kiss him goodbye. 

Fuck that. You want to climb him and wrap yourself around him like a crazed koala and leave marks on him with your mouth to remember you by. ( _Le sigh. Romance. AmIright?_ ) 

But the guards seem to be a little too interested in what sort of conversation between the General’s prisoner and the Supreme Leader would require such close proximity. 

“Well, I don’t know why you think I’d give a shit that you’re leaving.” You say loudly while you think: _I’ll miss you so hard._

He gives you a secret smirk before putting on his helmet and walking away. 

“I hope you don’t come back!” You shout after him. 

_If you don’t come back I’ll escape and come find you and **murder you dead** for leaving me here._

He turns and says, “Careful, Doctor. Or I’ll be sure to tie you up in solitary when I come back.” 

“I hope you do!” 

_And by “solitary” we mean bed right?_

You take the snort-turned-coughing sound coming from under his helmet as confirmation. 

All at once, panic seizes you when he turns to walk out the doors. There’s something unsaid. 

There’s something you suddenly _need_ to tell him, something that you’ve never felt the need to say to anyone. You’re scared to say it - terrified. But you’re even more scared to let him leave _without_ saying it. 

You take a deep breath and shout, “Hey, asshole!" 

He looks back over his shoulder at you. 

_I love you._

“I know.” He says through the mask. Then leaves.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You sigh and whack her on the back in a way you hope comes across as a supportive _get-back-in-there_ kind of way instead of just physical abuse. “We’ll work on it. The animals can _sense_ weakness - so you’ll need to toughen up.”

For the next few days, life on the Star Destroyer continues as normal. You spend them mainly reading, tending to Hux’s animals, and daydreaming. 

One morning, your daydream (admittedly, a strange one about Kylo letting you dutch braid his hair) is interrupted by your _favorite_ pretentious red-headed-douche-canoe and he's not alone. He has a young woman with him. 

She’s a wisp of a girl with thin, mousey blonde hair, huge blue eyes in a thin heart-shaped face, and buck-teeth. 

She looks terrified. Probably because she’s been roped into hanging out with Hux.

_Poor dear._

“Doctor.” Hux greets you as you sit up on the bench you were laying on, “This is your new protege, Jex.” 

_Protege?_

“The Supreme Leader has had a change of heart about our little menagerie and is feeling philanthropic.” 

Though you resent the way he refers to _his_ exotic animal prison as “ours” (as if you are a willing participant in the atrocity), Hux has your full attention with the mention of Kylo. 

“He has so _kindly_ agreed to allow you to accompany him on his next excursion in order to procure some more specimens for our little collection. Since you’ll be gone for several days, you’ll need-,” 

But you don’t hear what he says next because you’re stuck on this: 

_Several days? Several days?! Could I still be daydreaming? Several days off the Star Destroyer? With **Kylo**!?!_

You’d swoon if you were the swooning type and if Hux wasn’t watching your reaction like a hawk. 

_Does he suspect…?_

Just in case, you carefully arrange your face into what you hope looks like boredom and shrug, “Okay.” 

Hux explains to you that you have twenty four hours to be ready before Kylo lands onto the Star Destroyer to refuel and retrieve you. And as soon as the General leaves you practically skip back to your quarters. 

_I wonder where Kylo is taking me? Oh! I’ve always wanted to go to Dandoran. I hear it’s really hot and rural there, so we wouldn’t need to wear many clothes…_

_Or! What about Maldo Kreis? It’s very cold there and we’d probably need to use each other’s body heat for warmth…_

_What should I pack? What should I **wear**?_

You gaze at your “wardrobe” which is made up of exclusively First Order issued leggings and tunics in the exciting colors of white, black, and grey. Then snort at your own ridiculousness. 

The meek sound of a throat being cleared has you jumping out of your skin. It’s your “protege,” whom you’ve _completely_ forgotten about. 

“Shit!” You clutch your chest, heart pounding, “You’re still here? What are you doing here?” 

“Uhm. Hux said you’re supposed to train me to take care of the animals while you’re gone? Remember?” 

_Sure don’t._

“You shouldn’t _sneak_ up on people like that!” 

The girl looks so upset about your outburst that you start to feel bad about blaming her for the ordeal. It was _you_ who forgot about her after all. But how could you be expected to remember this little mouse girl existed when you were supposed to be preparing for a sexy trip with Kylo Ren?! 

“S-s-sorry,” she mumbles. Her bottom lip starts wavering and her eyes start to fill with tears. 

_Oi vey!_

You grab her by the shoulders. “Jess.”

“Jex.” She corrects. 

You raise an eyebrow at her, “That’s what I said. Anyway, I’m going to tell you the same thing my aunt Karen told me years ago: stop being precious. No one likes it. It’s boring.” 

“O-okaaay?” 

You sigh and whack her on the back in a way you hope comes across as a supportive _get-back-in-there_ kind of way instead of just physical abuse. “We’ll work on it. The animals can _sense_ weakness - so you’ll need to toughen up.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

 _Be cool._

This is your mantra as you board Kylo’s command shuttle. The loading dock is such a chaotic place that you never know who might be watching you. 

So with the patience of a saint, you manage to wait until the door is closed before you charge him. He’s ready for you and catches you easily as you wrap your legs around his waist and shower his whole absurdly beautiful face with kisses. 

He laughs and your stomach drops. 

_I **missed** you. _

“I was just thinking the same thing.” He admits while setting you down and giving you one long kiss on the mouth. 

Doing anything that requires not touching each other, such as not bothering Kylo while he’s taking off of the Star Destroyer in the Command Shuttle, proves to be a difficult task for you. 

It _can’t_ be healthy to be this obsessed with someone. You have to sit on your hands to keep them to yourself but you can’t stop straight staring at the man while he deftly maneuvers the craft out. 

Kylo’s face when he’s concentrating is mesmerizing. His lower lip juts out a bit, like a tiny pout. You think about how much you want to nibble on it. 

“Can you not?” Kylo groans. 

“What?” You ask innocently. 

“Can you not think about stuff like that while I’m trying to focus?” 

“Okay. What about this though?” You grin as you play one of your more lurid daydreams where you’re both naked ( _duh_ ) and you’re sitting on top of him and you’re both all dewy with sweat and- 

“KYLO!” You scream and point out the window because he’s veering into an area where another ship is patrolling. 

With those crazy midichlorian-powered reflexes of his, he barrel-rolls the shuttle out of the way and your stomach drops again, but this time it’s not so fun. By the time the ship has leveled out your chest is heaving and you’re staring out the windshield with wide, terrified eyes. 

“Not that either.” Is all Kylo says and this time, thoroughly humbled, you just swallow and nod. 

Half an hour later, you’re in deep space and Kylo turns on the auto-pilot. You still haven’t quite recovered from your shock of almost dying, so he has to come and unbuckle and pry you from the chair. 

He scoops you into his arms, in a tight embrace, pressing your cheek to his chest. 

Closing your eyes, you breathe the moment in. You hate flying. You hate people. You hate being in space. But you love him. 

Tilting your head back, pressing your chin to his sternum, you look up at him. As he returns your gaze you notice for the first time that the deep purple circles under his eyes are back. You reach up and brush his temple with your fingertips, “What’s wrong?” 

When he smiles you feel relief because it’s a genuine smile. He bends down and kisses the top of your head, “Nothing is wrong anymore. You’re here. Safe. With me. And I think I’ve found a way to make it so we can be together and Hux won’t be able to hurt you.” His eyes focus on the wall behind your back and whatever he’s thinking makes him chuckle. You wish you could see inside his mind the way he could see inside yours. “He wouldn’t dare.” 

A feeling of hope begins to swell inside your chest with such rapid speed, you don’t have time to temper it with reason. “Really? How?” 

Kylo focuses back down on you, “You’ll see when we get there.” 

“Get where?” 

“Exegol.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> I'm going to be taking a couple weeks hiatus. But don't worry  it's not over! Ever since I started this fic I've had the whole plot mapped out and there's still plenty of fun/angst planned for Kylo and his entomologist. Keep sending the love. It keeps me going! 
> 
> love you all!  
> xx
> 
> Evie


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Historically, resources have been unequally divided between destruction and preservation. With the amount of funds given to destruction (i.e. wars) far outweighing the funds given to preservation and expansion of biological knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! I can't stay away. 
> 
> <3<3

The secret headquarters of the Sith Eternal is… well, _very_ secret. They’re not messing around. 

Kylo informs you it’ll take at least two days to get to Exegol and he has to use this bizzaro concrete framed pyramid of dirty glass and red light to help him navigate the path. But you wouldn’t care if it took ten days to get to Exegol. Shit, you wouldn’t care if you _never_ got to Exegol. Because during the seventy-two hours you spend with Kylo on the way, you get a taste of what it would be like if he weren’t the Supreme Leader and you weren’t Hux’s prisoner. And that taste is enough. You’re hooked. 

Watching Kylo do normal, everyday things around the Command Shuttle has activated two of your personas simultaneously - fascinated field researcher and sex obsessed horndog. This yields some peculiar internal monologues that are half nature documentary narrative, half perverted cavewoman. Here are some examples: 

\- Kylo brushing his teeth: _It would appear that, like the rest of his species, this powerful young male participates in the ritual of cleaning his teeth. Strangely enough, he puts the cleaning paste on **before** running the device under the water, which is **incorrect** but no one would dare tell him so. However, he displays proper technique - using the circle motion as opposed to up-down or side-to-side. Notice as he does this, the way the tendons in his forearms and hands ripple and flex. His hands... Strong hands. On body. **Now.** _

\- Kylo walking around casually without a shirt: _Observe the male making his coffee without a covering on his thoracic region as per the social protocols of his species. This is because we are getting a rare glimpse of him in his natural habitat, where he feels comfortable doing so. And make no mistake about it, he **is** a fine specimen. Pay particular attention to the way his well-honed external obliques rotate seamlessly as he twists and stretches. **Abs**. Must. Lick. Abs. _

\- Kylo doing pushups: _In order to keep up his excellent form, the alpha male must strengthen his muscle units by performing a series of calisthenic exercises. Here we have the privilege of witnessing this in action. Interestingly, he does this **again** without covering his torso with clothing. It begs the question: is this how he always exercises? Or does he do this to impress the female who has entered into his territory? If so, it’s working. The female has taken notice and she seems impatient to mate with him. Shoulders! And biceps! And pecs! **Oh myyyy!** _

\- Kylo peeing (listen, you're not **proud** of this one, but it is what it is): _All animals must excrete waste in order to survive, including our young male. Here, he displays his comfortability with his female companion by doing so with the **door open**. It has piqued her curiosity, notice how when she pretends to stretch she actually positions herself in clear view of him. She perceives that, in a similar fashion to many of his sex, he urinates while standing. While you may think that such a non-provocative act as excretion couldn’t possibly arouse the female, you’d be underestimating the potency of his partially exposed backside. Lower back dimples lead to… **butt!** Must. Grab. Butt. _

\- Kylo taking a shower: _The sound of the cleansing apparatus has engaged the female. Watch as she rapidly sheds her outer layers, intent on **yet again** mating with the male. If she’s not careful, she may exhaust him. Fortunately, he appears to match her eagerness and accepts her advances with equal enthusiasm. Kylo. Wet. Soapy. Slippery. *banal gargling/drooling sound*_ (This last one may or may not have temporarily broken your brain.)

Sex aside, there is just… _copious_ amounts of touching, putting you into a tactile induced dopamine and serotonin soaked high. 

While you’re reading, Kylo puts your head on his lap and strokes your hair.

When he has to sit in on a meeting via holotable, you are hidden from view on the other side. But while he talks to the board in his serious Supreme Leader voice, saying things like, “We’ll need to be discrete until we can narrow down who the rebel spy in our midst is.” he holds and rubs your foot under the table.

He pulls you onto his lap when you walk past with coffee and kisses your shoulders while you drink it, sending shivers up and down your back.

He leans over and kisses your cheek when you’re deciding what move you should make in the game of dejarik the two of you are playing, because “You’re cute when you concentrate.” 

Then there’s the _piece de resistance_ : the stop to refuel on Rugosa. 

Rugosa, a moon in the outer rim territories, is home to one of the most unique and biologically baffling ecosystems in the galaxy. It’s terrestrial terrain is primarily dominated by caverns and towering coral forests. That’s right. Several megafauna species of coral have adapted to _non-aquatic_ environments. That alone would be fascinating, but the ecosystem that has developed around these coral forests is just as extraordinary. For this reason exclusively it would be any biologist’s wet dream, but because of Rugosa’s inaccessibility, the moon has become the holy grail of biological science. 

Rugosa is in a sector of the galaxy commonly referred to as “Hutt Space,” meaning it’s under the unofficial rule of the Hutt clan. But ever since the death of the infamous crime lord Jabba, years before you were even born, the whole territory has been embroiled in a vicious war between different factions of organized crime. Due to the increased hostility and overall unsafe conditions, only the bravest of biologists dare to venture into Rugosa - and even then they are rarely heard from again. 

Kylo explains to you that he is left alone on Rugosa, “Hutt Space is a wild card, they don’t align themselves with the First Order or the Rebels, but they also don’t want to draw the wrath of the First Order, so they won’t touch me or anyone with me.” 

Upon landing you notice that the Toydarian (the current primary humanoid inhabitants of Rugosa) who comes to greet the two of you is beyond hospitable. After introducing himself to you as Urrod (Kylo and him appear to already be acquainted), he immediately dispatches his crew to begin refueling and supplying the Command Shuttle. It’s a well orchestrated dance that has obviously been done many times before and when you realize this your gut reaction is jealousy oddly enough. 

For all his merits, Kylo Ren couldn’t give two shits about the complex, unique, awe-inspiring ecosystem of this moon. He’s barely even _glanced_ the exquisite multicolored corals towering over the both of you. And yet he’s allowed to be here, unharmed, without fear of being taken hostage, or murdered. Perks of power you suppose. 

_Must be nice._

You watch Kylo hand over a sizable satchel to Urrod who looks inside and smiles even more warmly at the Supreme Leader. It’s not just power that’ll get you to previously impenetrable places, it’s money. Well, money _is_ power, not just with Toydarians (which is a harmful stereotype) but anywhere in the galaxy. If you have the currency required, you’ll have access to what you want. A thought that makes you bitter. 

Of course, as a high ranking political figure, Kylo would have access to amounts of money that a research biologist could never dream of seeing. Historically, resources have been unequally divided between destruction and preservation. With the amount of funds given to destruction (i.e. wars) far outweighing the funds given to preservation and expansion of biological knowledge. 

However, as you and Kylo are being led deeper into the coral forest by Urrod toward a cafe to pass the time, something interesting happens that starts to take the edge of your resentment.

You’re gaping, clearly awe-struck, at your surroundings. Taking particular note of any small invertebrates you see hovering near expansive lime-colored flowers, or crawling up neon-purple vines. You're trying to cement everything into your memory and while you’re watching the forest, Kylo is watching you. 

He grabs your hand and pulls you to a stop next to him, then asks you in a low voice, “Do you want to stop and look around for a minute?” When you finally rip your eyes away from the backdrop to focus on him, you see he has an adoring smile on his face. 

“ _Really_? There’s time for me to look around?” You can’t believe your luck. 

He tugs you forward and kisses you on the forehead, “I can tell how much you want to. We’ll make time.” 

A soft, fuzzy feeling travels throughout your body, all the way down to the tips of your fingers and toes. Even though you know Kylo doesn’t care about the same things you do here, he cares about _you_ and wants it for you. 

He calls ahead to Urrod, telling him to wait, then gently pushes your lower back, urging you to step off the path and closer to the coral you are currently looking at. 

At first you're timid, almost reverent. But then you see some movement at the base of the Rugosian king coral fanning out above your heads and you rush over to get a better look. It’s a deep maroon juvenile dwarf neebray, or “flying manta” scraping it’s teeth along the surface of the limestone then dipping it’s tongue into the calicles of the coral. 

_Is it eating the coral polyps?_ You get onto your hands and knees and crawl over as quietly as possible to get a better look. 

Behind you, you hear Urrod ask Kylo, “Your woman, is she a scientist?” 

You’re not sure how you feel about being referred to as Kylo’s “woman.” You’re sure you're his _something_ , just as he’s yours, but it feels so _reductive_ to be referred to as his “woman.”

“She’s an entomologist.” The pride you detect in Kylo’s voice melts your reserve. Alright then, you’ll go ahead and be “his woman.” 

“You know, we don’t allow many _outside_ scientists here on Rugosa…,” Urrod says and you freeze, recruiting as many of your auditory nerves to hear how he’s going to convince Kylo to pull you away from the coral. 

_Fuck…_

“This must be exciting for her. Do you think she would like to have a tour led by one of our most renowned biologists?” 

_Wait… **WHAT?!**_

Slack jawed and shocked as hell, you swing around to look at the pair - scaring the shit out of the poor little neebray in the process. It gives a little shriek and flys away. 

Kylo bites his bottom lip to subdue his grin. Once he composes himself he addresses Urrod in a deep authoritative voice, “If you could arrange that, I think she’d like that very much.” 

“Anything for the Supreme Leader’s woman.” Urrod does a little bow toward you. 

From behind the Toydarian, Kylo’s eyes are sparkling with silent laughter as he mouths, “Anything for my woman.” 

If you could find it in yourself to be annoyed, you’d flip him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SW canonical creatures and species: Toydarian, neebray, Rugosian king coral (yes, corals are animals)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air is thick with… pheromones? Sexual tension? 
> 
> Or maybe it’s just the humidity?

The next four hours of your life are ones you don’t think you’ll ever forget. 

You spend them with Genesis, an ancient female Toydarian and expert in Rugosian ecology. You follow behind her deep into the coral forest, trying your best to keep up with her. Since she doesn’t have to navigate the forest floor and can _fly_ she keeps a brisk pace. While Kylo takes a back seat in this excursion, he is never far behind you. 

You’re astonished to see that he appears interested in the conversations between you and Genesis. Whether it’s because he’s trying to take an interest in _you_ or if he really does find your discussion about the endemic flora adapting hyper-photosynthetic abilities to compensate for the lack of trees fascinating, you don’t care. Either scenario only serves to endear him to you further. 

Genesis points out several species of eusocial invertebrates, that you’ve never heard of. She’s explaining their ecological importance in the coral forest when Kylo rests a hand on your shoulder and lowers his mouth to your ear to inform you that, “We need to start heading back.” 

You look over his shoulder at him and frown, “Now?” 

He mimics your pouty bottom lip with his own and brushes it with the pad of his thumb, “I’m sorry. We need to be back on the shuttle before it’s dark.” 

Tilting your head back to look through the calcium-carbonate canopy above, you notice it’s dusk. “ _Okaaay._ ” You relent. 

Genesis approaches the two of you and says, “Doctor, if you are still in the area in two days time, it will be the Festival of the Clans. A yearly Toydarian celebration to honor the unity of our clans. There’s music and food and a parade, I think you’d really enjoy it.” 

Adopting a pleading face, you look up at Kylo. He’s thinking it over, chewing the inside of his cheeks, “If we make it back in time. But I don’t think we will.” 

Kylo gives you an apologetic look. The sting of your disappointment is buffered by the incredible day so you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Genesis nods in understanding but adds, “If you can make it, we’d be honored to host the Great Kylo Ren and his woman.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
In the Command Shuttle, the floor behind the pilot seats opens up with the push of a button and the bed that you and Kylo have been sleeping on for the past two nights raises up. 

You step out of the refresher, wearing only your underwear and undershirt, while brushing teeth to watch Kylo bring it out. He’s already ready for bed, wearing nothing but black sweats. 

As you watch him, you think about your previous bitterness about his power and your helplessness and how he used his power for you today. Would it be laughable for you to hope that it might not be a total blow to your values as a scientist to be in a relationship with Kylo Ren? Could you _possibly_ have your cake and eat it too? 

You slip into a daydream of your distant future, something you haven’t let yourself do in months. 

Sure, you’d have to sacrifice a few years while he’s the Supreme Leader. But during that time maybe he’ll use his influence to help you make connections like he did today. Then, when he gracefully steps down (he’ll totally step down at some point, right?) it’ll be your turn to pursue your career. Kylo (and by proxy you) would still hold sway as former Supreme Leader and you’d have access to those resources to do your research. 

Is it crazy to believe that this situation that you’ve found yourself in - falling in love with someone in politics - might eventually enhance your career as an entomologist rather than hinder it? It probably _is_ crazy, but you’re excited by it all the same. 

Leaning against the doorframe of the refresher, you watch him crawl on his hands and knees to the head of the bed, meticulously smoothing out the comforter on the way. His unruly black mane falls over his forehead and eyes, concealing you from view and it’s not until he sits back on his heels and runs a hand through his hair that he catches you watching him. 

His small smirk is self-conscious and it makes you feel so bubbly inside you giggle - it comes out garbled, and not at all cute, from your mouthful of toothpaste. 

A few seconds later, after you’ve spit out your toothpaste and rinsed your mouth out, you reassume your position against the doorframe. 

Kylo is still kneeling at the head of the mattress, waiting, watching. 

The air is thick with… pheromones? Sexual tension? 

Or maybe it’s just the humidity? 

Whatever it’s thick with, it makes your lower belly clench and you squeeze your thighs together in response. This draws Kylo’s gaze lower… and lower. His eyes meander over your whole body, as slowly and meticulously as he was just smoothing out the comforter. This creates a positive feedback loop where his obvious appreciation of your form makes you react viscerally, and when he sees you squirm his eyes grow hungrier. 

By the time he stands up and stalks toward you he looks positively feral. You squeal internally (yes, Kylo Ren has made you an _internal_ squealer as well) and press your back against the wall, tilting your chin up to keep your gaze locked on his as he moves closer and towers over you.

 _They’re right you know. I’m all yours._

Kylo runs his index finger down the side of your face and you close your eyes and shiver. Then when he brushes his lips across your cheekbone, your shiver turns into a full blown tremor. As he bends down to scoop you up and you wrap your legs around his waist, he says, “If they only _knew_ how helpless I am when it comes to you. Then they’d know it’s _you_ who wholly owns _me._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes.   
> More shameless fluff. 
> 
> Enjoy it while it lasts.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shoot a sideways smirk at Kylo, but to your dismay, he’s still playing the thirsty man’s bitch, like he has been since you’ve walked into the shit-hole of a citadel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, apparently Greek mythology exists in this universe too. Just let me have the "Achilles Heel". Okay?

You’re trying your best. 

You _swear_ you are. 

But you can’t stop staring. 

Who could blame you though? You’re standing in front of a man who has been _**brought back to life**_!! 

Oh, the questions you have for Mr. Palpatine. Sir Palpatine? Emperor Palpatine? Darth Sidious? You don’t know what to call him, but you know what you want to ask. First and foremost: _When you come back from the dead, are you not allowed to like... drink water?_

Because _holy shit_ , the man looks dangerously dehydrated. Frankly, if he hadn’t already risen from the dead, you’d be _very_ concerned about him. 

It would also seem _comfort_ isn’t part of the Sith Code. There’s absolutely no way that the pointy stone throne he’s sitting on in the middle of this weird foggy throne room is comfortable. Would it kill him to throw a cushion on it? And if it did - couldn’t he just, I dunno, bring himself back to life? 

“So this is her? The one you seek protection for?” 

Yeaaah even his larynx sounds like it’s shriveled like a prune. 

_Someone get this man a drink!_

You shoot a sideways smirk at Kylo, but to your dismay, he’s still playing the thirsty man’s bitch, like he has been since you’ve walked into the shit-hole of a citadel. 

“She is.” Kylo confirms, keeping his head bowed humbly to his master. To be honest it’s shocking to you to see how meek he is here. Shocking and… _deeply unsettling._

“Leave us.” Palpatine orders Kylo, who shoots you a warning look before walking out. Even though you can’t read his mind you know what he’s trying to communicate: _Don’t be sassy._

Once he’s gone. Palpatine starts in. 

“So you’re the scientist who Kylo Ren is taken with.” The way he says ‘scientist,’ like it’s some sort of joke has your hackles raising, but you take a deep breath. 

_For Kylo._

“Yesss. Good girl. He wouldn’t want you talking back to me.” 

_So this one can read minds too._

“Among other things.” 

You roll your eyes and the man cackles. It’s a disgusting sight, all black teeth and slobber. Everything about him is _unnatural._

His red-rimmed milky eyes transfix yours. 

“Your parents were scientists too.” 

You blink at him. “Marine ecologists.” 

“Yes. Employed by the Galactic Republic.” How does he know? You can’t _feel_ him in your head rifling through any of your thoughts the way you can when Kylo is there. 

You nod. “Technically, yes. They were on contract with the Galactic Republic.” 

“Kylo Ren has asked me to grant you my protection, but what will you be able to give me in return, I wonder?” 

You jut your chin out, “I don’t need protection.” 

His cackle is almost a scream this time and you flinch, “Oh, child! How naive you are! So… _sweet_. No wonder the boy is so enamored with you.” 

The way this shriveled old man speaks to you, you don’t know how to describe it…. you feel as if you’ve collapsed inside. As if he’s draining the energy from you. 

_Maybe it’s this lighting? Why does it need to be so **dark?**_

“I can assure you, once Kylo Ren makes his... _attachment_ to you public - the whole galaxy will see you as his Achilles heel. In order to get to him, you will become the target of thousands.” 

You see a hole in his logic and point it out, “So isn’t it in your benefit to protect me? Isn’t he your apprentice or… whatever? You wouldn’t want him to have such an evident weakness.” 

“As it happens, the more _negative_ emotion Kylo Ren feels, the more powerful he becomes. So you see, it would be better for me to have you die tragically.” 

Your spine completely stiffens. And Palpatine twists his mouth into the most hideous smile you’ve ever seen, “Fortunately for you, I have a soft spot for the boy. I want to give him what he requests, but I can’t do that unless you give me something in return.” 

At a loss you shake your head, “What could you _possibly_ want that I could give you?” 

You’re crossing your fingers in hope that if he’s not plagued by thirst, he’s not also plagued by sexual desire. And you exhale in relief when he says, “Why, I want you to do what you were trained for, my dear - I want you to be a _scientist_.” 

Although you have relaxed substantially after erasing the thought of having to touch the man’s sandpaper skin (I mean if his _fingers_ are that shriveled, could you even _imagine...?_ ) a part of you remains tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“What use could the First Order have for entomology field research?”

“None. But the First Order has a biological weapons department. You will work with them. Specifically on creating a disease vector.” 

**HA!** And you thought being Hux’s exotic animal keeper challenged your sense of ethics.

Before he even finishes you're shaking your head and slowly backing away. “No. Absolutely not.” 

Palpatine holds out one of his gnarled and knobby hands, flexing his fingers slightly, and when he does so you start to move towards him. 

No matter how hard you dig your heels in, you get closer and closer. It feels like you’re in one of those nightmares where you’re trying to run away but can’t, except worse because you’re just trying to _stop moving_ and you can’t. 

Once you're close enough, you do stop - but you remain rooted to the spot by some invisible shackles. He’s so close now that you can see every wrinkle, every desiccated vein, every patch of dusty skin. It’s disgusting. 

And the _smell_! 

The smell is the sickly rancid/sweet of decay, of death. It makes you sick. 

When his bent, skeletal index finger reaches up to stroke your cheek, you try to lean away but can’t. And when he makes contact and you feel the slimy coldness of his skin against yours, bile rises in your throat. 

“Well. Aren’t you _precious_?” Your eyes snap to his, “And I thought your aunt taught you better.” 

_....How?_

“I know _everything_ about you, _Doctor_. I know your past, present, and future. I know you will work for me to ensure your protection. Do you want to know _how_ I know this?” He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, “Because I know how you feel about Kylo. I can _see_ it in your mind, I can _feel_ it in your heart. Love is a _formidable_ emotion. It makes fools of us all, but it also makes us brave, it makes us do things we wouldn’t do otherwise. And in that way, love is one of the most useful emotions to me.” 

Palpatine is exploiting you in the same way you exploited Spike. He’s using your primal instincts to trap you, to make you do his bidding. Your chin begins to wobble. 

You tell yourself the same thing you told the girl on the Star Destroyer days ago: _Toughen up, they can **sense** weakness._

“Sweet girl, I see what your heart most desires.” The decrepit man, the bleak citadel throne room, it all falls away and in its place is an image of you in a beautiful rainforest. You’re trying to reach up to collect some samples from a hive, but it’s just out of reach. Kylo comes up from behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and hoisting you up the last couple of inches while planting a kiss on your jaw. There are no dark circles under his eyes, he doesn’t wear a cape, or a mask, or a lightsaber. He’s just Kylo and you’re just you and you are both free to love each other and live your lives together in peace. 

The scene is so alluring that your eyes begin to get misty. 

When the image is ripped away, a mournful whimper flies out of your throat and you reach forward as if you’re trying to grab it and bring it back. But your hand is reaching for nothing, your fingertips only grasp fog in floating in the atmosphere of the dark blue wasteland. 

The Emperor pats your hand sympathetically and you snatch it away to wipe the tears out of your eyes. 

“It is the same thing Kylo most desires. And I want you two to have it.” 

Against your better judgement, your spirits begin to lift at this news. 

“But until this war is over, you can never get there. Until the rebels can be brought to heel, that paradise is unattainable. You can help with that, Doctor. With your research you can bring an end to this war, you can save lives. I know you desire equality in your relationship with him, you want it to be ‘ _give and take._ ’ So tell me, how is it fair that he makes all the sacrifices for this bargain?” 

Once again, you shake your head, “How will I be _saving_ lives if I make a disease vector that you unleash as a weapon? Disease vectors are non-discriminate. Hundreds of thousands of innocent lives will be lost, maybe even ones on your side.” 

“Ah, yes. However, a crucial, but devastating blow that ends a war _saves_ lives in the long run. And if you make a vaccine for our side, you will save yours and Kylo’s. Then, once it’s over, he will be free from the confines of war to live a _normal_ life with you.” 

You cringe at how he says “our” side but as much as you’re loath to admit it, his reason - though twisted - has a ring of truth to it. 

In eusocial insects, sacrifice is key to the functioning and survival of the colony. When under attack, every single worker becomes willing to sacrifice for the greater good, for the protection of their queen, the survival of the genetic material. Yet, humans aren’t eusocial, we don’t do well serving a queen - since we own our own genetic material to pass on. We fight for our own survival, we’re selfish, we don’t play well together, which is a hilarious evolutionary joke because we _need_ each other for survival. Bringing humans “to heel” is what causes bitterness, then revolt, then war. It’s a never ending cycle that your parents worked hard to keep you out of. 

You’re about to say as much when Palpatine speaks again. Putting the final nail in your coffin. 

“Doctor, before you tell me your decision, let me make one thing clear, I am not one to _waste_ a resource as valuable as Kylo Ren. There are two ways I can utilize him. First, I can give him what he wants. I can protect you - if you let me. This way I use him as a long term resource, I gain his trust, his respect. _Or_ , I can... do what I did with his grandfather, I can _permanently_ remove you from him and make it look like it was the rebels. Then I will harness his raw, untamed, rage in order to destroy them.” 

“So you’re saying my choice is… no choice. Either I make your biological weapon or you’ll have me killed?” 

“That sounds like a choice to me.” 

“Your parents knew the importance of sacrifice,” your eyes shoot to his, “And they were punished for it. They didn’t perish in a hurricane. They were pawns in this game. They were blown up. Sacrificed by their own people for the simple crime of knowing too much. But my sweet, _precious_ , girl, I don’t punish sacrifice like the Republic did. I _reward_ it.” 

_Why would I believe anything this man says to me?_

“You don’t have to believe me. That’s what’s so wonderful about the truth, don’t you think, _Doctor?_ It exists whether you believe in it or not.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t want to sound like a dick, but The Knights of Ren are possibly the _worst_ conversationalists you’ve ever encountered. And as someone who’s lived with only the company of ants and glass flyers for years at a time, that’s saying something.

This time it’s Kylo’s turn to meet with Palpatine alone. On brand with his over-protectiveness, he has you wait amongst the towering, primeval, all-around creepy statues in the citadel with his buds - The Knights of Ren. 

You don’t want to sound like a dick, but The Knights of Ren are possibly the _worst_ conversationalists you’ve ever encountered. And as someone who’s lived with only the company of ants and glass flyers for years at a time, that’s saying something. This is especially frustrating since you're desperate to distract yourself from what happened in the throne room with Lightning-hands.

(Oh yeah, you totally saw him shoot lightning from his hands before you left. You’re pretty sure he just did it to show off, so you tried not to act impressed but the man shot _**lightning** from his **hands**_ so you couldn’t really hide it.) 

“So… the Emperor.” 

Silence. 

“I mean, someone give the man a drink. Right?” You chuckle nervously. 

It’s so quiet, you wonder if they’re even breathing. 

You're feeling a little wounded that your hilarious joke has bombed _twice_. Alas, you rally and ask them how they met Kylo, “Was it like a frat or what?”

Nothing. 

You ask _who_ knighted them, “Did you like… knight _yourselves_? Can you knight yourselves? Is that allowed?”

Nada. 

Then, at some point - after you ask them how they got through the scary nebula without a magic navigational pyramid - you just start talking to yourself. Full blown _monologuing_ in front of The Knights of Ren. 

“This place is…,” You look up at the hooded stone faces, who flash in and out of focus with the strobe effect of the near-constant blue lightning in the atmosphere, “I mean, I’ve never been anywhere like it. Do you think this is just a temporary storm system, or do you think The Sith Lords chose this planet because they were going for a whole _theme_?” 

With a heavy sigh, you look at the ground. “Do you think anything is even _endemic_ here? I mean, do you think there’s any sort of _ecosystem_?” Shuffling your foot on the compacted dirt beneath your feet, you see no sign of fertility or life. No tunnels made by invertebrates, no remnants of shed exoskeletons. No rich velvety texture that would indicate any microbial life. The top layer of this planet is just dead, dusty, mineral. 

Because no one else will, you answer your own question, “No. Nothing is alive here - except us. Nothing can live here. It’s like the antithesis of biology, so… _unnatural_.” You shiver and rub your arms. 

_I wonder when Kylo will be done. I want to nope on out of this shithole ASAP._

The thought triggers a memory of something that Palpatine said - something that you'd barely noticed at the time. He’d asked you, ‘ _How is it fair that he be the only one making sacrifices in this bargain?_ ’ 

If you thought you were sacrificing too much, what had Kylo given up in this bargain? It would be naive of you to assume he would be required to give less than you. No, surely Palpatine has him on the hook for god knows what. In addition, who the hell knows what bargains he’d made with the man before you came into the picture?

Another memory slithers in, as unwelcome as a vexis on a Star Destroyer, one from further back. The medical doctor in Kylo’s quarters, when he’d been stabbed, she’d said that she’d only been able to save him ‘ _Thanks to his connection on Exegol._ ’ 

_How much have you gambled away, Kylo? How much of you does Palpatine own? And is there any of you left for me? More importantly, is there any of you left for **you?**_  
.  
.  
.  
.  
 _Lub, dub._

Between those two sounds so many vital things are happening in the human body. _Lub_ the ventricles contract sending deoxygenated blood to the lungs and oxygenated blood to the rest of your body. _Dub_ the atria open, filling the ventricles with deoxygenated blood from your body and freshly oxygenated blood from the lungs. 

Your ear is pressed against Kylo’s chest as he sleeps, and you listen to his heart. 

_Lub, dub. Lub, dub._

It _sounds_ normal - like it’s doing the same thing yours is. But how do you know if the molecules and muscle cells that fire nerve impulses and make the tissue function in his heart are the same as the ones in yours anymore? 

How does one come back from the dead? 

What changes _inside_ when abnormal powers mend the broken fibers and proliferate new cells in place of the ones that have died? 

Kylo had been so… _happy_ when you’d left Exegol with him hours before. His enthusiasm was unprecedented, it was contagious. You didn’t have the courage to ask him the questions weighing heavily on your mind: _Was it worth it? Am I worth it? Are **we** worth it?_

Once he’d navigated the shuttle safely out of the Crimson Nebula that surrounds and obscures Exegol, he'd set the course and then focused all his rapturous energy on you. 

It was easy for you to push the questions aside with his body sliding against yours. It was impossible to remember your worries when his elbow hooked under your knee while he moved, hoisting it up so he could hit that spot _right there_ , the spot that makes your thighs shake. 

It was easy to forget about Palpatine when Kylo pulled you to him, and wrapped you in his arms. Making you feel all safe and fuzzy and like you’ve _definitely_ 100% made all the right choices in your life. You've _had_ to if you're here. 

But when his breathing started to get deep and rhythmic and his arms started to slacken with sleep, the unsavory, uncomfortable thoughts started to creep back in. They’re like ants at a picnic - okay maybe not like ants at a picnic, because as an entomologist you love ants at a picnic and you most certainly _**do not**_ love these thoughts. 

The first round of cerebral torment goes like this: 

Like your aunts had earlier in your life, Kylo has done everything in his power to make sure you are protected - that you are safe. Yet, you can’t help but feel… trapped. When this all started, Hux saved you to ensure his animals were safe and protected, and they are. Georgia, Spike, Male-Lola, and Gertie never have to worry about predators, they never have to stress about where they’re going to get their next meal. They’re safe. They’re protected. 

But what kind of life do they have trapped in there? What parts of ourselves do we relinquish for safety? 

Do you now owe it to Kylo and his sacrifices to remain in the safe little prison he’s built for you? Are you now bound to him by obligation? By gratitude?

Then the second round of mental torment storms in, effectively obliterating any shreds of hope you had left for that carefree life with Kylo: 

To truly understand someone, you need to ask yourself what they’re motivated by. Apart from basic hormone driven biological drives of: lust, fear, hunger, thirst, there’s something that everyone wants so badly it fuels them. For you, it’s knowledge. You’ve always wanted to _know_ , to _see_ , and to _understand_ the natural world and its inhabitants. You achieve true satisfaction from puzzling out mysteries, from getting answers to your questions. That moment, when everything clicks into place, that “ _Oooooh!_ ” moment - you live for it. 

You have this moment while laying there, listening to Kylo’s heartbeat. And for the first time ever - you wish you could _unlearn_ something. You wish you could _unsee_ it. You wish you could chop the realization up into pieces, put each piece into a box and then bury each box on a different planet. Because you hate it. Because it’s devastating. 

The realization you’ve made is this: Kylo is motivated by power. When he was training to be a Jedi, he sought a way to become more powerful. Every single step he’s taken since has been in order to gain more power, more control, and because of that - he’s indebted himself to the Sith and now this freaky Sith Eternal cult... thing. 

There is _no_ world in which Kylo won’t be paying these debts. He’s trapped himself and you’re part of the reason he’s trapped himself further. If you stay with him - you’ll _both_ be stuck in this cycle trapped by Palpatine until the old bastard decides he’s bored and offs one (or both) of you. 

There will be no future in which Kylo can say to that shriveled raisin of a man, “Hey! FYI, this is my two weeks notice. I’m heading off with my lady love to study some bugs for her field research. It’s been real.” 

There will be no room for giving in this dynamic. You will be beholden to the same fate he is. 

You tilt your head back to look up at his face. So serene in sleep. 

And just like you did all those weeks ago, you trace the scar, you kiss his cheekbones, you take his pulse ( _60 beats per minute, very healthy_ ). But this time while you do fat, salty tears stream down your face. 

Because this time while you do, your heart is breaking. 

_I know what I have to do, I just don’t know if I have the strength to do it._


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well, fuck you too, subconcious._

The panic is building, you feel like you can’t take a full breath. 

You need to escape and you need to do it now - and not look back. Kylo lets go of your hand and turns his back to you to give the vendor some credits. 

While the man you _love_ is getting a god-damned _snack_ for you at a The Todaryian Festival of the Clans that he’s come to _for you_ , like the absolute saint of a partner he is, you sneakily slip away into the crowd, leaving him - like the coward you are. 

You have to do it like this and you hate yourself for it. But you know you’re not strong enough to leave him in any sort of conventional mature way. This is because you know he’ll say some pretty words like, “Okay, I’ll get out of the First Order,” or “Okay, I’ll cut my ties with the Sith Eternal, but it’ll take time. Just be patient.” And you’ll believe it because you’ll want to. Hell, _he’ll_ probably believe it too. 

But as an outsider who just got a glimpse into his world you know there is no safe way out for him anymore. The only way Kylo is leaving the First Order, and the only way he’s leaving the Sith Eternal is by death. 

As soon as you’ve made your move you run and run and run. Your lungs burn, and your brow begins to bead with sweat, but you don’t stop. The pain is good. It distracts you. You don’t stop and you don’t think. You can’t or you’ll go back.

Then you feel him. 

He’s there. In your mind. 

In a state of agitation, you whip your head around, searching for him, and before your eyes flood with tears, blurring your vision, you see him. He’s standing across the busy street from you, his dark eyes full of hurt focused on you. 

You submit. You give him everything freely. 

You show him _why_ you are doing what you’re doing, your painful realizations, and _how_ you came to this decision. You relinquish it all to him, hoping that someday he’ll understand. Hoping that someday he’ll forgive you. 

You need to retreat again, you need to ride out the tiny amount of strength you have to leave him. But before you do you think as loudly and as clearly as you can: 

_I love you and I think I **always** will. But now you see why I can’t stay. Why you have to let me go. I love you, I love you, I love you… _

Then, something strange happens. You have the same thought you did your last night with him, but this time it’s in **his** voice: _I know what I need to do, but I don’t know if I have the strength to do it._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
You gasp awake, jackknifing yourself into a sitting position while clutching your chest. You regret it immediately because clearly someone has stabbed you in the head and you’re dying.

Okay. 

No one has stabbed you in the head and you _probably_ aren’t dying… _yet._

“What the _fuck_?” you grumble and lay yourself back down gently with your arm flung protectively across your eyes. 

Your subconscious is punishing you. Why else would it choose _this_ moment to slip that nightmare in? After six weeks of dreamless sleep, why _now_? Why when you’re hung over for the first time in years? 

With most nightmares you wake up and feel relief. With most nightmares you can tell yourself: _Okay, that was pretty shitty, but **thank god** it didn’t happen!_

But this particular nightmare you can’t do that with, because _this_ nightmare really happened - six weeks ago. It was essentially just a live action replay of what you’re positive will go down as one of the worst moments of your life.

_Well, fuck you too, subconcious._

And just when you think it can’t get any worse than waking up from the dream from the ninth circle of hell with one of the worst hangovers you’ve ever had, you realize…

_Why am I laying on dirt?_

You squint your eyes open and look around. You’re… under a _tree_? 

_That can’t be right…_

But you are. Or at least that’s the best way you can think of to describe where you are. It’s some sort of cell dug out from under the exposed roots of one of the biggest trees you’ve ever seen. It’s daytime, you can tell from the light filtering in from the domed lattice ceiling, and from the noises filtering in from outside you’d guess you are in some sort of... _jungle_?

You squeeze your eyes shut as tight as you can and pinch the bridge of your nose. 

_How the fuck…?_

Where had everything gone so wrong? You try to clear the fog from your brain and try to remember how you got here. 

You interrogate yourself. _Think! **THINK!** *wince* (could you keep it down please?) What do you remember from yesterday?_

_Yesterday…._

You’d just found out you’d been awarded an insanely huge research grant by the GSF, one that would fund your proposed project for _years._

For almost six weeks straight you’d been working non-stop - eighty hour weeks, seven days a week. You’d been doing this to make up for all the time lost on the Star Destroyer and definitely _not_ because you were keeping yourself distracted from thinking about a certain angsty Supreme Leader. 

After you left Kylo, you reconnected with the GSF and explained your situation. They’d set you up in a small studio apartment near their headquarters and gave you what they’d salvaged from the wreckage in Crait. It had taken you only four weeks of work to consolidate all your data on the glass flyers into not one but _two_ publishable journal articles. 

Impressed with your turnaround the GSF sent you several different grant applications. And about twenty four hours ago you’d walked out of a meeting where you were told you’d been granted over _five hundred thousand credits_ to pursue your research on midichlorians in eusocial invertebrate queens. In two weeks time you were going to be going back to your roots in entomological research, to Endor with your phantom ants. 

Because you’d been trying to keep a low profile since abandoning Kylo on Rugosa (just in case Palpatine wanted to make good on his promise to murder you) you had no friends or family who knew you were there to celebrate this news with. 

_Fuck it_. You’d thought as you confidently marched into a bar, sat down and ordered a Corellian whiskey. _I’m an **independent** woman who doesn’t need anyone to celebrate with, god dammit!_

Be that as it may, you were also an independent woman who hadn’t had a drop of ethanol to drink for about four months, and who’d forgotten her tolerance was nonexistent. 

Two drinks in, you struck up a conversation with a beautiful twi’lek woman sitting next to you. You told her you were celebrating and she congratulated you enthusiastically and bought you another drink, brushing your shoulder with her hand. In hindsight, she _may_ have been flirting with you. 

Then she asked the exact _wrong_ question, “So, are you currently _attached_ to anyone?” (Okay, she was _definitely_ flirting with you.) 

Your first response to her question was a bitter laugh. 

Then, instead of answering in any coherent way, you started to give a full blown drunken lecture on the physiology of heartbreak, “Ya wanna know sumfin’ ruuuude? Your body and your brains dunno the difference ‘tween heartbreak and like… ass-tual really real pain.” 

You’d swayed toward the twi’lek and she’d smiled encouragingly (or maybe she’d smiled uncomfortably? Reflecting on it sober, you think the latter might be more probable.) so you continued, holding up your finger, “Not ‘nly that! _But!_ If you been ‘round someone for long ‘nuff, your… _rhythms_ or whatever start to mash… _mash_ … fuck, _MATCH_. I’s tryin’ to say your rhythms start to _match_ up an’ like the ‘brupt s’pepperoni can ass-ually mess up your ‘mune system.” 

Translation: _the abrupt separation can actually mess up your immune system._

“THEN!” You shouted, finishing off your drink and beckoning for the bartender to pour you another, “ ‘sif tha’s not ‘nuff, the drop in dope-ramine and soxitocin that your bod-ee has _godden used to_ can… _lit’rally_ give you the same ‘zact symptoms of wi'drawal!” 

Translation: _as if that’s not enough, the drop in dopamine and oxytocin that your body has gotten used to can literally give you the same exact symptoms of withdrawal._

“Who you talkin’ to, baby?” the middle-aged, kind-faced bartender asked as she walked passed. 

You looked to your side and saw that the twi’lek was gone. 

Shrugging, you took another sip and said, “Looks like ‘m ‘lone. Again.” 

A concerned frown crossed the bartender's face and she suggests, “Maybe you should call it quits after this, eh?” 

And you did. 

After finishing off your fourth (or fifth?) glass of whiskey, you did what any reasonable drunk woman would do - you decided to “walk it off.” 

This is when things start to get a bit hazier in your memory. You don’t remember _where_ you were when you saw the back leg of the R2 unit retreating into an alley, and you don’t remember how you _got_ to the R2 unit and its owner. 

All you know is one minute you see an old blue and white R2 and it makes you think of something that happened on one of your favorite holo-films as a child. In it, a woman records a holo-message into an R2 droid to deliver to one of her family members. Then, the next thing you know you’re kneeling unsteadily down next to it in the dirty alley, patting it on its head and saying, “Hi there!” 

When the little droid turns to you and chimes a melodic series of beeps, you gush, “ _Omigawd! You’re cuuuuuuuute!_ ” 

“Hey! What the hell? Get away from him!” The man who you presumed to be the R2’s owner finally noticed you and nudged you with the toe of his boot. 

It was a gentle prod but thanks to the alcohol affecting your coordination, you fall back onto your ass and frown up at him. 

He’s a rugged dark-haired man with a killer five-o’-clock shadow and thick brows. He oozes ego and has such an effective stink-eye directed at you, that if you’d noticed, you would’ve immediately puffed out your chest in defense. But you didn’t notice. 

“This siz your R2?” you ask, pointing at the droid who _beep boops_ something up at the man, “Mayhaps can I, possibly use it to record a massage -,” your verbal slip up has you snorting at yourself, “I mean, _MESS_ -age!” _hic_ , “Sorry.” 

“Listen, sweetheart,” the man grabbed your arms to help you up. 

When you got to your feet you swayed toward him and breathed, “ _Ugh!_ You’re one of _those_ guys.” 

He wrinkled his nose and leaned away. 

“ _You_ ,” you poked him right on his sternum hard as you say this, “Lissin to _me_. I’m a boss… ass… science lady and ‘cause of that you should r’illy let me use your abhorable,” (you meant _adorable_ ), “R2 to jus’ tell Kylo Ren that… I dunno… that imma be gone.” 

“I’m sorry, but did you just say you wanted to send a message to... _Kylo Ren_?” The man steadied you by holding onto your shoulders and when you managed to focus on him you saw that his douchey glare had turned into an equally douchey smirk. He found you amusing. “Why do you think the Supreme Leader of the First Order would want to hear from _you_?” 

You’re not sure how it happened but you’ve rested your forehead on the stranger’s shoulder, in an effort to try and stop the world from spinning and answer him, “‘Cause I used to be his…,” _his what?_ , “Know what, misser?” you leaned back and he reached out and grabbed you by your elbows to keep you from stumbling, “Yer right. I don’t fink he wants to hear from me. He prolly hates me since I left.” 

Then, for some reason that you didn’t understand at the time, the stranger says he knows how you can send a message to Kylo. But he tells you that he needs you to come with him. 

Total serial killer move right? 

Had you been sober you’d have seen it a mile away. Unfortunately, you were (obviously) _far from sober._

_Now I’m trapped in some weird tree prison in some sort of fucking **rainforest** and I’m probably seconds away from being skinned alive by the arrogant man while his R2 watches._

The thought makes you feel like you’re going to puke. 

Nope. The thought makes you puke for real. 

With a guttural groan you roll onto your side and vomit. While you do a small hand pats your cheek and pulls your hair out of the way. 

“There, there,” a weathered feminine voice croons. 

When your body allows it you look up at who is in the pit with you.

She’s a tiny ancient woman and you can’t tell what species she is - not quite asogian, but almost. Her wrinkled skin is a leathery orange, she’s dressed practically except for the plethora of bangles hanging from her wrists and a long baubly necklace from her delicate neck.

She peers down at you from thick magnifying glass spectacles that make her eyes look enormous. Her face is kind and maternal. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you scoot away from the pile of stomach acid you just ejected from your body. The woman follows you, without a trace of disgust on her face and for some reason this makes you feel ashamed. 

“Sorry about that,” Your voice sounds like gravel. 

She sits down next to you, shaking her head, “Never apologize for getting rid of that which will poison you.” 

_What a strange response._

You give her a sideways glance and raise an eyebrow. She holds out her petite hand and proceeds to introduce herself as if you had an audience, “My name is Maz Katana. Some people call me the Pirate Queen, but you can just call me Maz.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other problem with wars is, again, like a shitty ex or even a problematic child, wars will throw a fit if you aren’t paying attention to them. They’ll _make_ you pay attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Charles Dickens novels also exist in this galaxy.  
> So? Fight me. You'll win because I'm lazy. 
> 
> xx

“The ‘ _Pirate Queen_ ’?” you look her up and down. In your fatigue, your filter has completely abandoned you and you say, “You’re not at _all_ what I’d expect a ‘pirate queen’ to look like.” 

Fortunately Maz doesn’t take offense. She laughs and pats your leg, “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you learn that expectations rarely serve you well. _You_ are nothing like I expected and since I know things are often not how I expect them to be - you are exactly as I expected.” 

The blank mouth-breathing stare you give her is one for the books. 

_Wait… what? She was expecting me? But I’m not what she expected? Great Expectations? Hold on. Is this Miss. Havisham? I’m **way** too hungover for this._

While your brain is struggling to synapse Maz shuffles over to the opposite corner of the cell to retrieve a tray of food you hadn’t noticed before, and bring it to you. 

“Eat.” She orders pointing to the tray which had a bowl of mush, a biscuit, and a large tin cup of water on it. 

Like a picky toddler, you make a face.

“You do nothing to help your situation by starving yourself. Eat. Drink. It’ll ease the pain in your head and stomach.” 

_My ‘situation’?_

“What exactly _is_ my situation?” you ask. 

“For every bite and drink you take, I will answer one question.” 

How can you argue with that? Plus, from your party days in undergrad and your basic knowledge of human physiology you know she speaks truth. Eating and rehydrating is the best hangover cure. 

So you play her game. Alternating bites and sips with questions and here’s what you find out: 

\- You’ve been taken to Ajan Kloss.  
\- Ajan Kloss is _not_ the name of a scary, but sexy bounty hunter like it sounds. Rather, Ajan Kloss is a moon in the Outer Rim Territories where the primary rebel base is currently located. Basically, you’ve been taken to a rebel base.  
\- You’re _not_ a prisoner. Apparently, you’ve just been put in this tree-root dungeon as “a precaution.”  
\- Also, even though Maz insists you’re _not_ a prisoner, you’re not allowed to leave yet. So… pretty much you _are_ a prisoner.  
\- The man who brought you here is not a serial killer, but a former Spice Runner turned pilot for the Rebel Alliance named Poe Dameron. But this is according to the woman who just told you that you weren’t a prisoner, so you take that with a grain of salt. 

“Poe’s a bit of a wild card,” Maz reflects affectionately, “We’ve been lying low after losing the General, and he gets bored.” 

You forgot how irritating it is to be surrounded by people who assume you know all the intricacies of this war. The way Maz talks about “losing the General” like you’re supposed to have been keeping your finger on the pulse of the events of the war. 

That’s the thing with wars and the people in them - they’re like a shitty narcissistic ex. They think you’re always thinking about them, that you’re obsessed with them. When really, you’ve been busy living your life, searching journal databases for michlorian research done on non-sentient beings, as one does. 

The other problem with wars is, again, like a shitty ex or even a problematic child, wars will throw a fit if you aren’t paying attention to them. They’ll _make_ you pay attention. 

Maz continues, “Occasionally, if he gets bored enough, Poe will sneak off and find something to distract him on another planet. That’s where he found you - or rather _you_ found _him_.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Something you said in passing intrigued him. You mentioned a connection with the Supreme Leader of the First Order. I was hoping you’d elaborate on this _connection_.” 

_“HA!”_ You wince at your own outburst. Although you’re feeling much better with some food and water in your belly, your head is still as sensitive as a male dathomirian is about the size of his horns (read: _very sensitive_ ).

_Perhaps since I got myself kidnapped by her precious pilot, this lady thinks I’m a complete imbecile. (Well, maybe I **am** stupid for that, but now’s not the time to dwell on it.) But she must have **dementia** if she thinks I’m going to let myself be used as a pawn against Kylo._

Ultimately, you decide to use your presumed stupidity to your advantage. 

When you continue, you play innocent, “Did I say that? God, I was so drunk.” You feign embarrassment and gesture to your person, “Why would the Supreme Leader even _know_ who I am? What use would the First Order have for an entomologist? Who even _is_ the Supreme Leader of the First Order? Is his name like… _Kyle_ or something?” 

You _may_ have taken it a bit too far there at the end, because Maz’s expression has a definite _thou-dost-protest-too-much_ quality to it. You swallow your mouthful of water a bit too hard.

You had a suspicion that Maz Katana was cast as the token crone in this organization, which is confirmed when instead of asking you a follow-up question, she launches into a _story_. 

Although crone is female specific, there are male versions of them as well - they’re just (unfairly) referred to as _wisemen_. Crone’s and wisemen fill a particular niche. They must always be old and enlightened, have an unending pool of philosophical words of wisdom, and be experts in every field. They need to constantly be ready to jump in and play devil’s advocate and to guide and support the brazen young heroes that surround them. Shock, ignorance, and the phrase, “I’m not sure,” are strictly prohibited for use by crones. 

Despite your initial eye-rolling at Maz’s predictable reaction, you quickly become entranced by the story she tells. It’s about a sweet little boy named Ben who was the son of two legends. Maz adds, “Though we love them, legends rarely make good parents. The pressure on their offspring is too great.” 

Little Ben’s parents also disagreed with how he was to be raised. His mother wanted him to receive intensive education to hone his skills while his father wanted him to have a normal childhood. This argument escalated into full blown domestic turmoil as he grew older and started to prove himself to be a gifted child.

As his parent’s relationship started to dissolve in front of his eyes, Ben, like many children, blamed himself. This is when his tender heart started to build up a layer of protection - not unlike when your skin starts to thicken under repeated stress. However, according to Maz, he was an exceptionally loving and adoring boy and even with this protection - he wanted nothing more than what any child does, the unconditional love and affection of both of his parents. 

When Ben was ten, against his father’s wishes, he was sent away from home to be trained as a Jedi by his mother’s brother. Though he longed to be home, his greatest desire was to mend the rift between his parents. His anxiety to achieve this made him determined to become the most powerful Jedi in his class. He believed that if he made them proud it would fix their broken family. 

Alas, his fear of being a disappointment along with his natural talent in the ways of the force made him an easy target for the dark side. As he grew into his teens, he surpassed all his pupils and even at times his uncle. He became a true master - if not in title, in skill - in the ways of the force. 

But it wasn’t enough, it was never enough. At this point, his parents didn’t even speak to each other, and it seemed to Ben that in their feud they’d more or less forgotten about him. The dark side began to feast on his feelings of inadequacy, on his resentment, and he became seduced by the power that it could give him. 

Sensing his nephew’s growing shift in loyalty, his uncle contemplated murdering Ben. ( _Dude. What the fuck?_ ) And this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, pushing Ben completely over to the dark side. ( _Ya think?_ ) 

When Maz breaks the news that Ben Solo is Kylo Ren, you can’t say you’re surprised. You may be hungover but you can piece together context clues well enough to have come to that conclusion almost immediately after she said, “Let me tell you a story about a boy named Ben.” 

“Even though every decision Kylo Ren has made, every action he’s taken since leaving Luke, has been indicative of him being a true Sith, his mother maintained he still had light in him up until her death. She sacrificed herself for him _because_ she believed it.” Maz shakes her head in sorrow. “I’m ashamed to say that, like many others, I did not have the hope for her son that Leia did.” 

Then she looks up at you, her spectacles reflecting the light off of them making her look like she has giant compound eyes, “Not until I heard about _you._ ” 

This has you stiffening your spine. “ _Me?_ How have you heard about _me_? _What_ have you heard about me?” 

“We have a… _connection_ to Kylo Ren here.” Maz answers cryptically, “She made us aware of a change in him around the time you came into his life. Then again when you left.” 

“What do you mean a _connection_? What do you mean a _change_?” You’ve abandoned pretending not to know Kylo. _This woman is speaking in riddles!_

Completely ignoring your questions, Maz instead asks one of her own, “I need to know. When you left him, did you leave him on _Rugosa_?” 

The intense way she’s looking at you, like your answer holds the weight of the world, the way she clutches your hands - it’s too much. You swallow and nod. 

Maz’s hands move from yours to cover her mouth, and she gives a little gasp (evidently this crone is allowed to be shocked) “So she was right,” she’s talking to herself, two tears stream down her face, catching in the grooves of her wrinkles, “Leia was right. There _is_ light in him.” 

_Okaaaaay....?_

Her melodramatic reation only reinforces your feeling that you have no fucking clue what’s really going on here. You long to go home, to do your research, to be in a place where you’re not feeling constant confusion and where no one is asking you questions about Kylo. 

“I don’t understand how me leaving Kylo Ren has anything to do with the amount of ‘ _light_ ’ inside him or whatever.” you furrow your brow, “For the record, and not that it’s any of your business, the _reason_ I left Kylo is because he is so completely enmeshed in the dark side that there would be no room in his life for anything else.” 

The tiny Pirate Queen cocks her head to the side and asks again, “You escaped him on Rugosa?” 

You nod. 

“The planet in deep Hutt Space?” 

You nod again. 

Then she takes your hands in hers, her lips turned down in compassion like she’s about to break horrible news to you. You brace yourself. 

“Dear girl, you know as well as I do that a female scientist would **never** be allowed to leave Rugosa alive unless someone… _powerful_ were pulling the strings behind the scenes.” 

The seeds of awareness have been planted and they begin to sprout rapidly. 

Maz continues, “For you to be sitting here in front of me, Kylo Ren must have been in the shadows the _whole time_ , making sure you were able to leave - to leave **him** \- safely.” 

_Oh..._

“Can you imagine how hard that must have been for him?” 

_My…_

“Watching you go, **helping** you go, but knowing he’d need to stay away, to respect your boundary?” 

_**God!**_

“It’s a truly selfless act of love. And selfless love has _no_ place in the dark side.” 

_Oh my god. Ohmygod._

You’re jaw drops and you stare at the wall opposite you. It’s made of dirt and sturdy, twining roots, but you don’t truly _see_ it.

You’re back at the festival. You’re back at that moment when you’d let Kylo into your head for the last time, when you’d heard his voice in your head. You’d _thought_ it was just your mind playing a dirty trick on you, repeating your thought in his voice. But now you knew. It was _him_. It was _his_ thought. 

_I know what I need to do, I just don’t know if I have the strength to do it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SW canonical species: dathomirian (it's Darth Maul's species)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...Do you know what I’m saying?”
> 
>  _Not at all_. But you nod.

Although you’ve had a whole half hour excursion into the jungle to prepare yourself. Although you _promised_ yourself you’d meet her with the detached professional interest of a field-researcher. You are straight _gaping_ at Rey. 

_So this is the Jedi. The one who tried her best to murder Kylo. The one who has some sort of force “connection” with him._

Before your trek out from under the tree, Maz had given you the rundown on the MVP of the Rebel Alliance. You’re ashamed to admit that you experienced a wave of pure jealousy when you heard about her and her “rare and special force connection” with Kylo. Cognitively, you knew your emotions toward her were unprecedented, unhealthy, unfeminist, and just… gross. 

You were _determined_ to manage it, and you were positive you’d conquered it, until you saw her. 

When Maz called out her name, you looked up to see a young woman with dark hair pulled back from her face, showcasing her sharp almond eyes, delicate upturned nose, and high cheekbones. She’d been running a training course and as such she’s all flushed and dewey. 

Not that you’d _ever_ compare yourself to another woman you felt threatened by because you know that thought process would only serve the patriarchy. But for the sake of _conjecture_ had you _hypothetically_ been comparing yourself to her in that moment in your hungover state, you would have felt… disgustingly inadequate. ( _As previously stated this is purely hypothetical... of course._ ) 

She was the picture of health, energy, and vitality. Whereas you still felt queasy, your teeth and hair were in dire need of a good brush, you smelled of dirt, sweat, and vomit, and you felt like you’d commit homicide just to take a twelve hour nap in a dark room with a comfy bed. 

Rey nods at Maz in greeting and arches a skeptical eyebrow at you. From the way her eyes are traveling meticulously over your features, you can tell that she’s sizing you up. 

A familiar-looking silver tube hanging from her belt glints in the light that is filtering through the thick canopy above, and catches your eye. This not only gives you a much needed reprieve from the extreme staring match you're having with Rey, but is a convenient ice breaker. 

“Is that a lava - I mean, lightsaber?” You ask, gesturing to the device. 

“It is.” Her accent is… _fancy_. Like Hux’s, “Poe tells me you wanted to send a message to Kylo Ren?” 

You snort. At this point, it felt like a whole lifetime ago that you were drunkenly asking some strange man in an alley to let you send your ex a message with his robot. 

Taking your self-deprecating outburst as confirmation, Rey wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm and leans against the trunk of a fat tree, “What do you want to tell him?” 

Her facial expression and tone of voice is fine-tuned, well-practiced, ultra-controlled. She’s playing her cards close to her chest, she's smart. Why should she trust you?

“I guess I just wanted to… check in. Tell him where I’m going to be for the next little bit.” You flush as you say it, because god, it sounds so banal now that you're blood alcohol level is in a normal range. 

She blinks slowly at you, “ _Why?_ ”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes tight. 

_How to explain?_

In the end you go with, “I think he’d like to know.” because saying, _‘He’s the love of my life, and I’m pretty sure I’m the love of his but because of this stupid war and my pesky values we’ll never be able to be together. Don’t you see? It’s tragic._ ’ seemed a little over-the-top. 

“So, _are_ you her?” Rey asks and gazes at you meaningfully as if it _weren’t_ one of the vaguest questions you’ve ever been asked. Then she looks to Maz, “Is it her?” 

Maz nods. 

_Well, I’ll be. *fans self* Did you hear that? I’m **her**. *internal eye roll* Next thing you know they’re going to be saying, ‘she’s the one from the prophecy!’ or something equally insane and dramatic._

You roll your eyes (externally this time) and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Can I ask? How _exactly_ do you know about me?” 

Rey looks toward the crone for approval and once given it, she gradually starts to warm up to you. 

She elaborates on the “connection” she has with Kylo - calling it a dyad. Because she and Kylo are a dyad in the force, they are able to occasionally speak to each other, just _pop in_ on one another if you will. And as it’s grown stronger they can physically interact, duel with their lavaswords and such. She said though anyone who is force sensitive can sense “ _disturbances_ ” in the force, the dyad makes Kylo’s emotions especially easy for her to sense. 

“A few months ago, I became aware of a shift in him.” she explains, giving you a pointed look, “He wasn’t as angry. It was almost as if he were… _softening_. The hatred in him started to retreat, to make room for brightness, for optimism. Sometimes I would dream his dreams and I would _see_ you.” 

Well if that isn’t the most intriguing thing you’ve ever heard, you don’t know what is. 

You wish you had a handful of popcorn to shove into your face while shouting, _TELL ME EVERYTHING! What was I like in his dreams? Was I a magnificent sex goddess or did my teeth fall out? Because sometimes they do in mine and don’t you think that it would be weird if we **both** had dreams where my teeth fell out? _

“And I would see how he felt about you.” She continues, “I would... _feel_ how much he loved you.” 

At that, all your sass dries right up. Your defenses start to crumble. You have to firm your chin, which is threatening to wobble and chant: _Will. Not. Blubber. In. Front. Of.  
Kickass. Jedi. Lady._ in your head. 

“But then when you left - the emotions it caused in him were so strong - it caused a disturbance in the force. I felt his pain at the _exact_ moment he did, like someone had shoved their hand inside my chest and gripped my heart as hard as they could. I couldn’t breathe.” 

_Willnotblubberinfrontofkickassjedilady!!!_

“In my interactions with him after that day, he seemed torn, more unsure of his place in the force than I’ve ever seen him. Every time we connected he was weaker and weaker until he just… _disappeared_.” 

_Um… what?_

“Excuse me _**what did you just say?**_ ” Your voice is deep and dangerous as you step towards her. 

Rey is looking at the ground and chews on her bottom lip. Her apparent worry shifts the foreboding feeling in your gut into full blown panic. 

When she looks up, her warm brown eyes lock onto yours, “The last time I was able to see or even _sense the existence_ of Kylo Ren was two weeks ago.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Quick agitation-induced-rage-recap: 

First, you get yourself kidnapped by some punk-ass, wannabe badboy, former frat brother (probaby) and get thrown into a _treehouse prison_ (oh yeah, you’re a fucking prisoner again!). Then some old bat tells you the saddest story you’ve ever heard about the man you’ve been trying your best to _forget_. 

Next, said old bat takes you to meet the bitch who can communicate with him through her mind and who also tried to murder him at least one time. This bitch proceeds to tell you that not only can she spy on him but she can sense what he feels and see what he dreams and shit. (Sidebar: did she see you two… _you know._ ) 

Ugh, who even cares about that right now?! Because _then_ she tells you he just like _fell off the face of the fucking galaxy **TWO FUCKING WEEKS AGO!**_

THEN when you ask her what that means, she says, “I don’t _think_ he’s dead. I feel like I would _know_ if he died.” 

_Wow. That’s super helpful, Rey. *eye roll*_

There’s a pit eating away at the inside of your stomach. You gag. You pace. You run your hands through your hair. Meanwhile, she’s looking at you long and hard, as if she’s debating on telling you something else. 

You groan, “Just do it already. Tell me. Who am I going to tell? Some ants?” 

“I have a… feeling… a _theory_ if you will,” she twists her bottom lip between her index finger and thumb. 

Because you don’t want to discourage her from talking, you refrain from telling her that a “theory” and a “feeling” could _not_ be more different. In fact, scientifically speaking they’re practically opposites. 

Instead, you roll your hand in the air between the two of you impatiently, as in _keep-going._

“When Kylo and I fought each other on Kef Bir, General Organa, his mother… she essentially sacrificed herself to save him. Well, not to save _Kylo_ but to save _Ben_. Do you know what I’m saying?” 

_Not at all_. But you nod. 

“I could tell she transferred her life force into me to save him and I was about to. But then that chrome trooper came out of _nowhere_ and I couldn’t. The thing is, I _know_ that the blow I delivered should have killed him. There’s only two ways he could’ve come back from it: either by the life force Leia had given me to save her son, or from very powerful, very _dark_ magic.” 

She shakes her head, “For that to work he’d have to be fully committed, fully _invested_ in the code of the Sith. But since you’ve left, his commitment has wavered. He sees that it’s his ties to the dark side that pushed you away and now he’s questioning everything. As his faith in the Sith code weakens, so does whatever is holding him together.” 

_How? What? This bitch is speaking distilled, purified nonsense._

When she looks at you, her eyes are wide with excitement and you smile carefully at her like you would a crazy person on the street who just told you they’re the King of the Wompas. 

She looks to Maz who gives her an encouraging nod, then continues, “The thing is, I still think I can save him. Well, I think I can save _Ben_. The power, the life force that Leia passed to me, it’s _here_ ,” she looks down at her hands, you look down at her hands, Maz looks down at her hands. 

And guess what? 

They look like _normal hands._

“It’s like she’s just… _waiting_ for me to pass it on to her son. I think I can save him, but we’ll need to hurry - I don’t think he has much time left.” 

You perk up. Who cares if what she’s saying is complete and utter bullshit, if she can get you to Kylo - you’ll take it. Ever since Rey said she couldn’t sense him, you want to see him. 

No. You don’t ‘ _want_ ’ to see him, you _need_ to see him. You _need_ to make sure he’s okay. 

You clap your hands, “Great! When do we leave?”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You glare at him, too exhausted to play nice like you know you should, “Am I going to have to endure your commentary for the entire trip? If so, does anyone have some fathier tranquilizer they can dose me with?” 
> 
> “ _Brrr!_ Ren likes his women like he likes his heart - ice cold.” He shoots back, rubbing his arms and pretending to shiver.

Have you ever made a friend and then that friend introduces you to their already established squad and you can tell it’s a huge mistake? Like as soon as you walk into their shitty brunch or whatever you can just _feel_ that you’re missing something? That you’re the odd man out? Almost as if they’re already established characters in their story and you’re… _not?_

That’s how it feels when you walk onto the ancient, hunk of junk Millenium Falcon that Rey sneaks you into. She has to sneak you in, because like all protective parents, the Rebel Alliance would never allow their golden child to go galavanting off with the woman who’s been fraternizing with the likes of Kylo Ren. 

Once you get onboard you recognize the man who kidnapped you. He gives you a smug smile and says, “Hey! It’s the boss ass science lady! Look at you! Standing up straight all by yourself like a big girl!” 

You glare at him, too exhausted to play nice like you know you should, “Am I going to have to endure your commentary for the entire trip? If so, does anyone have some fathier tranquilizer they can dose me with?” 

“ _Brrr!_ Ren likes his women like he likes his heart - ice cold.” He shoots back, rubbing his arms and pretending to shiver. 

“That’s enough, Poe.” Rey shoots him a warning look. 

In addition to the pompous talking eyebrows, there’s another man sitting in the co-pilot seat and a wookie sitting in a half-circle booth positioned around a table. Both of them eye you warily. 

You feel... _unwelcome_. But you can’t blame them. Although you’ve said a hundred times you’re not affiliated with the First Order, you were _literally_ in bed with their enemy less than two months ago. 

Rey directs you to sit across from the wookie, and as you do the R2 droid you were after the night before rolls up and chirps up at you. It’s appearance is comforting and you’re genuinely happy to see it. So you pat it on it’s top and say, “Hello again.” 

“Oh, R2! Leave her alone!” a flustered C3PO droid wobbles in behind the smaller droid. Never before have you seen a droid that looks to be in need of a xanax... until now. Frankly, the tall golden robot looks as _stressed_ out and uptight as you feel before the night before a publishing deadline.

“He’s fine.” You assure the 3PO, “It’s good to see a friendly face.” 

The R2 responds by projecting a cringe-worthy hologram of you from the night before sloppily proclaiming, “ _Omigawd! You’re cuuuuuuuute!_ ” onto the middle of the table. 

The wookie bellows in laughter, you groan and cover your face, and C3PO chastises the little guy, “ _See!_ Now you’ve done it. You’ve _embarrassed_ her.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong 3PO,” your BFF from the pilot seat calls over his shoulder, “She does that well enough on her own.” 

“For fuck’s sake!” You growl, “Are you the _worst_ pilot in this whole galaxy or what? Are we _ever_ getting off this planet?” 

“Oh my!” If C3P0 had pearls, he’d be clutching them, “Can you _believe_ the language on this one, R2? How rude!” 

What an idiotic thing you’ve just done. You'd think that you - the person who hates flying with the fire of a thousand stars, the person who has been on the edge of puking her guts out all day long, the person who’s has a headache so bad it feels like your cerebral cortex is trying to detach itself from your brainstem - would know better than to goad the man in charge of the craft you’re in. 

You'd think that. But you'd be wrong.

If it is possible to do so, Poe takes off _with an attitude_. The whole craft shakes and lurches and you’re convinced the ship is seconds away from falling apart. 

And like the delicate flower of a lady you are, you promptly lunge forward onto all fours to hurl your dinner half into a wastebasket and half onto the wookie sitting next to the waste basket. 

In between heaves you look up at your victim, who is looking down at the chunks of your dinner in his fur with a curl in his upper lip. You apologize and ask, “Have you, perchance, ever taught a seven year old boy how to pilot a ship?”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

The plan is pretty basic and only takes a few minutes for Rey to relay. As soon as the Star Destroyer catches sight of the Falcon they’ll pull them in. The others will cause a distraction, pretending to put up a fight while you and Rey slip out and find Kylo. 

How you’ll get _back_ after Kylo is a little less clear. This is because of the part of the plan that no one is comfortable saying out loud: it all depends what state Kylo will be in when you find him… _if_ you find him. 

As the hours tick by the whole ship seems to vibrate with nervous energy. Or maybe it vibrates because it's an antique that should be kept in a museum of flight.

To pass the time (and because you smell truly horrendous) you take a long, hot shower, and brush your teeth and tongue six separate times. Then there’s not much to do but rub your hands together and bounce your knee and look around at the knick-knacks that are shaking on the walls of the ship. 

The wookie turns on the dejarik board on the table between you two, taps you on the shoulder and motions towards it. 

Grateful for the distraction, you smile at him and move to sit across the board from him.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
The first part of the plan, the _very_ first part, goes flawlessly.

Rey was right when she explained the First Order wouldn’t miss a chance to get the Falcon. After Poe leads them on a short faux chase, which would have made you vomit if you had anything in your stomach _to_ vomit, the ship “surrenders” to the Star Destroyer.

As you’re being pulled in, Rey and you slip into some regulation First Order jumpsuits, identical to the one you wore the first time on Kylo’s Command Shuttle. Your anxiety is making you all jittery and unfocused. You zip the jumpsuit up to your waist and then bend down to lace up your boots. 

When you stand up Poe is standing in front of you. As in _right_ up in your personal bubble and he zips up your jump suit the rest of the way for you. 

_Can you believe the audacity of this douche?_

You laugh a humorless, shocked laugh. And he looks down at you with that shit-eating grin, “You sure you want to do this, peanut? There's other fish in the sea.” He winks. 

“If by ‘other fish’ you’re referring to men such as yourself, that’s a _hard_ pass.” 

He feigns a wounded frown, “Aw. But we have such great chemistry, peanut. Can’t you feel it?” 

“Is that what you call it when someone has a strong urge to pour sulfuric acid in another’s coffee? Chemistry?” 

The man throws his head back and laughs heartily at this, when he comes back down he brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles. You lean away from him and hiss. That’s right. Like a feral feline, you _hiss_ at him. 

This only seems to bring the narcissist further enjoyment, “If this doesn’t work out, we owe it to ourselves to explore this feeling.” 

“The only thing you make me feel is indigestion.” 

“The Supreme Leader isn’t the one who likes ‘em salty, peanut.”

From behind Poe’s head you can see the loading dock of the Star Destroyer rapidly approaching, your stomach twists and flip-flops.

“Ready?” The second pilot, who you’ve learned is called Finn, asks you and Rey. You notice his worried gaze lingers for much longer on the Jedi than you. 

You and Rey glance at each other and nod. 

“Remember,” She addresses the pilots, droids and wookie before the two of you slip away into the hidden lower compartment of the ship, “Put up a convincing fight, but not so convincing you get killed. We’ll come get you later in the holding cells.” 

The hidden compartment you and Rey cram yourselves into has a trap door that leads out of the bottom of the ship. 

Once you hear the sounds of fighting, you open it and army crawl out from under the Falcon. Then, following Rey you run away from the chaos happening on the other side. The two of you hide behind a cargo vessel until you see the rest of the crew being taken away alive and in cuffs by several stormtroopers. 

After they go, you both casually walk out into the loading dock and into the ship, careful not to make prolonged eye contact with any of the crew you pass along the way. 

Rey follows your lead into the ship and you lead her to Kylo’s quarters. You forgot how _weak_ this man makes you. Just being in the hallway that leads to his quarters causes your heart rate to skyrocket. You have to focus on the next immediate step in front of you in order to avoid spiraling into a bundle of nerves at the thought of seeing him again. 

When you get to the door, Rey opens it with her magic hands. This is the first hiccup you encounter in the plan. He’s not in there. You climb each set of stairs, search each section. His bed is made, everything is clean. 

Too clean. Like no one has lived there in awhile. It makes your mouth go dry. 

“Maybe the med bay?” Rey suggests with a forced hopeful tone to her voice. 

He’s not there either. 

You start to wring your hands. You’ve never felt this way before. So concerned it’s making you feel… _physically ill_. 

Rey grabs your hands and squeezes them reassuringly. Her voice is soothing and when she speaks, she tells you all the wonderful things you want to hear, “Listen to me. He’s here. He’s on this ship. I can _feel_ him and he’s sick but he’s alive. Now I need you to close your eyes and _think_. Where else could he be?” 

You wrack your brain. 

_Not in his quarters, not in the med bay._

_Where would I go?_

“When I’m sick I always want to be in my bed. I want to be in a familiar place. I want to be... _home_.” You groan in frustration and rub your eyes, “But he’s not _in_ his quarters.” 

Rey gasps like she’s just had an epiphany, “Sometimes, for people who haven’t had a place to call home in a long time, a _person_ becomes their home. Do you know what I’m saying?” 

_Never. Nothing you say makes any logical sense to me, Rey._

But you nod. 

She grabs your shoulders, “Where did _you_ stay when _you_ were here?”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll need help.” _Whoa. Was that **my** voice?_ It was unrecognizable, a fractured whisper coming from a broken person.
> 
> The look Rey gives you is one of deep pity and she nods in understanding. It would make you defensive if you were capable of feeling defensive at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so emo it has smudged eyeliner.

Jedi mind tricks must be one of Rey’s niches, because getting past the guards and into the menagerie is a cakewalk. 

You’re so focused on your destination that you don’t even glance at the animals in their cages, you don’t even think about them. Once you recognize the slumped form of Phasma, sitting by the front door to your former quarters, you quicken your pace. 

The chrome trooper has her mask off and her head in her hands. The sight of her looking so defeated is ominous and a sense of foreboding creeps in. You tell yourself to prepare for the worst. 

“He’s here,” Rey whispers, “I can _feel_ him.” 

_**Or** … and hear me out here, you put together context clues like I did. Kylo not being anywhere else on the ship + Phasma at the door = Kylo is here._

It’s possible you’re starting to get a little resentful at Rey and all her special _”feelings”_ surrounding Kylo. 

You jog a little ahead of the Jedi, and call out Phasma’s name. The blonde woman looks up and startles when she sees you. Her big blue eyes are red rimmed and bright with tears. 

Answering the question in her eyes you say, “It’s a long story, but I’m here to see him. Is he in there?” 

Before she can answer she catches sight of Rey and becomes immediately defensive, standing and reaching for her blaster. 

You position yourself between her and Rey, “Hold on a second! Don’t shoot.” 

“Why is _she_ here?” Phasma’s voice and face is truly terrifying. She’s looking at Rey like she’s never seen anything more vile in her entire life. 

“Like I said,” you wave your hands in front of her face until she looks at you, “It’s a long story. But believe it or not she’s here to help… I think.” 

Fortunately for Rey, Phasma is exhausted and gives up the fight easily. There are deep bags under her eyes and her chin looks unsteady as she addresses you, “He’s not doing so good. He hasn’t woken up for a couple of days now.” 

Frantic to see him, you try to step around her but she moves to block you, looking like she wants to give you the whole spiel before letting you in - which you just don’t have the patience for. 

“ _Phasma… get out of my way._ ” If Phasma thought _she_ was intimidating before, it’s nothing compared to how you sound now. Your voice is more of a low, savage, animalistic growl than anything. 

With a mildly shocked expression, she does as you ask. You slide open the doors to your old quarters and make a beeline for the bedroom.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
You remember reading once that there are five stages to grief: denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. 

On paper it seems so organized, like a recipe. In real life, you’re finding out, it’s not. It jumps around, different stages combine to make their own and underneath it all there’s the pain. Not just pain - agony.

That’s what you feel first when you see him. 

Kylo’s laying like one would in a coffin, his hands resting quietly on the blanket pulled up to his chest. This, along with the pallor of his skin makes him appear dead at first glance. And it’s not until you reach his side that you notice the shallow rise and fall of his chest. 

All the air has been forced out of your lungs and you feel nothing but pain as your legs give out and you kneel beside the bed, flinging your whole body over his torso. 

Perhaps it’s a bit melodramatic, but you have officially run out of fucks. Plus, you _feel_ fucking melodramatic. The only man you’ve ever loved is on death’s doorstep. If there were ever a time for drama, it’s now. 

“He’s been in and out for the past two weeks.” Phasma explains from behind you, “The doctor has tried everything to fix him. She’s cauterized and stitched up the wound, but nothing works. She says she’s never seen anything like it, that it’s not behaving like normal tissue.” 

You’re not even crying. You can’t. All you feel is pain. Not just abstract emotional pain either, but a tangible, physical burn and ache all over your _entire body_. Your whole trachea is inflamed, and your lungs are on fire. Your muscles are throbbing, begging to curl you up into the fetal position, so you crawl up next to him, rest your head on his shoulder, and let them. 

“He’s been comatose for two days now,” Phasma’s voice breaks, and when she recovers she explains, “The doctor says she doesn’t think he’ll come out of it.” 

It’s like your body remembers his, but can tell something is off. The heart beat that used to be in sync with yours, the lungs that used to inspire and expire at the same rhythm as yours - they’re off. It’s eerie. 

“I’m sorry we were too late,” you whisper into his neck, you’re furious with yourself, “I’m sorry _I_ was too late. But I’m here _now_.” _That has to count for something, right? This all wasn’t for nothing, was it?_

Tilting your head back, you examine his face. 

He looks like an imposter. The shapes are the same - his cheekbones, the jaw, his eyes, his hairline, and his nose - they're all the right shapes - but the skin hangs on them all wrong. His cheeks are hollow, his wide, beautiful mouth - one of your favorite features of his - is too pale. You reach up and pass your thumb over the dry, cracked surface of his lips. 

You’re rethinking everything you’ve ever done, every single step that you’ve taken that has gotten you here. 

_Maybe if I hadn’t left him on Rugosa. Maybe if I’d just taken that deal with Palpatine. Maybe if I’d left the first time. Maybe if I hadn’t let him into my bed._

_Maybe if I hadn’t gone after that glass flyer queen on Crait, I wouldn’t have gotten caught in the first place. Then I would’ve never met Kylo and he’d be fine, living his best life, terrorizing everyone on the Star Destroyer, making Hux’s life miserable._

Nuzzling your cheek onto his pectoralis major muscle that you’re using as your pillow, you see his collarbone peeking out from under the neckline of his shirt. You walk your fingers along the skin and watch his capillary refill - watch the tiny white spots your fingers leave behind, promptly turn back to the slightly less-white color of his sickly complexion. 

This is when you start bargaining. 

You’ve never been a religious person. Up until recently anything that wasn’t backed up by solid peer-reviewed scientific research, anything _supernatural_ or _metaphysical_ in nature has been filed away under “bullshit” in your brain. But you are now full-on _praying_. 

Praying to _what_? Who knows? You sure don’t. 

_Whoever you are, or whatever you are. If you’re listening, if you can hear this - **please** give him another chance. Please let him wake up. I’ll do **anything**. I’ll never roll my eyes again, well - I’ll try my best not to. I’ll be a better person. I’ll make my bed every morning. I don’t know what you want from me, but whatever it is - I’ll do it if you just somehow bring him back. Please. _

A movement from your periphery draws your attention and you see Rey hovering by his side. She’s looking down at his face and when she reaches out to trace his scar, it makes you feel possessive and you have to work to resist the urge you have to bite her fingers. 

Then her gaze travels lower, and this time, when she reaches out to pull the blanket covering his abdomen back she looks at you and asks, “May I?” As if he’s your property. 

You shrug. Because he doesn’t belong to you. He never did. As much as you wish the contrary, like he’d said the day he took you to return the vexis, he was always the property of the First Order and by extension the Sith Eternal. 

When Rey pulls her hand back from where she’s been poking around on his abdomen, her hands come back covered in bright red blood. 

She looks at you again, hesitates, then asks, “Can I try? Can I try to heal him?” 

And again, you shrug. 

_I don’t know, **can** you, Rey? Do you **really** think your hands are magic?_ If you could muster anything other than the crippling sadness and agony, you’d be annoyed. 

The Jedi tries to move the blanket to get better access to him, but your body is in the way. Her expression is apologetic as she asks, “I’m sorry, but would you be able to move? I think it will work better if you give me some space.” 

There’s a disconnect between your brain and body. Your brain says: _No problem, I’ll move for a second_. But your body presses itself even closer to him, your hands grip his shoulders, and you shake your head. 

Luckily there’s not a disconnect between your brain and your tongue because you explain, “I’ll need help.” _Whoa. Was that **my** voice?_ It was unrecognizable, a fractured whisper coming from a broken person. 

The look Rey gives you is one of deep pity and she nods in understanding. It would make you defensive if you were capable of feeling defensive at the moment. 

Phasma comes up behind you and gently detaches your fingers from his shoulders, like you did with the lichen-covered-rock worms on Pasaana several months before. Then she wraps her strong arm around your waist and pulls you off of him. 

You crane your neck around to see the blonde woman, she sniffs as she watches Rey. In a moment of pure instinct, you reach down and grab her hand. (It might’ve been a mistake because she holds onto yours so tightly the tips of your fingers start to tingle.) 

You know that, in her own way, Phasma loves Kylo. And you’re both here, helpless, having no choice but to put all your trust in this woman - the very woman who tried to kill him in the first place. 

Rey moves his hands to his sides and pulls up his shirt, exposing his stomach. Where there wasn’t even a _scar_ the last time you were with him, there’s now a huge open wound. The original one that Rey had made.

“ _Maybe she was right._ ” You say under your breath as she positions her hands to hover over the wound. Maybe whatever was holding him together before is completely coming apart.

When Rey takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Everything goes still. No one breathes, no one blinks. It’s the most tense thirty seconds of your life. 

Then you _see_ it. The wound starts to close. It’s surreal. It’s incredible. It’s… unbelievable. And yet, it’s happening - right before your very eyes. 

His chest. It begins to rise and fall, he’s taking deeper breaths now and as soon as he does, you do too. A healthy flush starts to creep up his neck and onto his cheeks and even his cracked lips start to heal. Both of your hands fly to your mouth and you gasp, your knees buckle and if it weren’t for Phasma holding you upright, you would’ve collapsed. 

There’s a sound of gravel crunching, of someone outside in the menagerie, but Rey isn’t done. Her eyes are still closed, her brow furrowed in concentration. You don’t want to interrupt, you don’t want to break the spell. 

Phasma moves to look and you stumble back, twisting to look out the door. 

“It’s just the caretaker.” Phasma explains and a blonde mouse-faced girl trails in behind her. 

“ _Jess?_ ” Over the past month you’d _completely_ forgotten about your little protege. 

She gives you an awkward little wave and then in her timid mouse voice says, “You guys better get out of here. Someone recognized _her_ ,” she nods toward Rey who is still completely focused on healing Kylo, “in the med bay and reported it to Hux. They’re searching the ship. Any minute now this place will be crawling with Storm Troopers.” 

_Fuck._

From behind her head you see the glass cases of the animals. 

“We’re taking them with us. They don’t belong here.” You didn’t consciously think about the declaration before making it, but now that the words are out of your mouth, you’re determined to get them off this ship. 

It’s the one thing in this whole shitty situation you can control. Whatever mystical force voodoo Rey is doing to Kylo, you can’t help with. You’re not good at fighting, you’re not good at shooting, you can’t do any psychic mind tricks, but you _can_ get these animals out of their prisons. 

You sprint over to Gertie’s cage and open it. The vulptex yaps cheerily as you open her enclosure and licks at your fingertips as she trails you down the line. You grab Lola by the scruff of his neck, jerking him out of his sinkhole and cramming him into one of the front pockets on your jumpsuit just as Rey appears by your side. 

She’s hard to read - you can’t tell if her breathlessness is from her shock at magically healing a deadly wound or from her frustration at not being able to accomplish what she thought. Eager to figure out which one it is, you lean to the side in order to get a look behind her, but you can’t make anything out in your old quarters. 

“Is he… did he… did _you_...,” you’re not sure how you want to frame the question and you’ve started to move forward to just go find out yourself. But Rey holds an arm out to stop you. 

“He’s alive,” her voice is shaky and her eyes are shining, “ _Ben’s_ alive.” 

_Well then get the **fuck** outta my way!_

You’re milliseconds away from pushing her to the ground and running to the cinematic reunion you’ve been imagining when she grabs your arm. 

“Wait! When I healed him…,” she looks around on the floor like she’ll find the words to explain it there, then says, “Something is happening to him.” 

The woman is _exasperating_ , “Good lord, Rey! Can you, for _once in your life just say what you mean?!_ ” 

“I think he’s talking to his dad.” 

_Pardon?_

“His dad? The one who’s _dead?_ ” 

She bites her lip and nods. 

“Did you _break his brain_ when you were doing…,” you do jazz-hands, “ _whatever_ that was?” 

She shakes her head, “I don’t think so. I think it’s… part of the healing process? Let’s just give him a minute.” 

And then from the frosted glass walls of the menagerie you see the outline of stormtroopers marching toward the door. 

You groan, “Looks like we don’t _have_ a minute, do we?” 

When the door opens with a hiss, it’s as if someone has pressed a button that activates the both of you. Rey runs towards the door - igniting her lavasword as she does. ( _Ooooo blue!_ ) And you run to the next habitat. 

Spike senses your distress and is a feisty little bastard, evading your every move. Finally, as you did with Lola, you’re able to manhandle him into a pocket on your other side and right when you do, you hear a familiar self-important voice. 

“Of all the people I expected to find in here, you are the _last, Doctor_. And to think I _believed_ you when you told me you weren’t with the rebels.” 

_Ugh. Of **course** Hux is a speech-giver. _

When you turn on your heel to face him, you see a desperate scene out of the corner of your eye. Rey is up against at least half a dozen stormtroopers and you have no idea how she’s going to pull it off. 

Hux approaches you slowly, a smug smile on his face, hands clasped behind his back, “You know, I’m actually glad you're here, want to know why?” 

_Not at all._

“Because I’ve been wanting to _thank you_. I’d suspected the Supreme Leader had a _thing_ for you when he took you on that little excursion all those weeks ago and I was planning to have you kidnapped and held for ransom when you came back.” He takes another step forward, and you take one back, shifting your eyes around discreetly for anything you could use as a weapon. 

The sadist smiles, thoroughly enjoying the way he’s making you squirm, then continues, “I thought I’d finally found a way to rid myself of the obnoxious brat. But you saved me the trouble. _You_ broke him for me.” 

“Do you not _hear_ yourself?” You’re stalling. _How is there not one single thing around that I could use to whack him on the head with?_ “You sound like a villain. Have you ever stopped and asked yourself: ‘If I sound like the villain, is it possible I _am_ the villain?’” 

“I forgot how _clever_ you think you are. It’s been so nice since you ran away, it makes me wonder why I waited so long to do this.” But right when he reaches for his blaster, you see them. 

You bolt three steps to the side and bellow, “ **STOP!** ” so loudly that it echoes around the domed ceiling of the menagerie. 

Hux has the blaster pointed at you, but he pauses. “Stop, or I swear, I’ll do it.” His gaze travels from the terrarium to your fist hovering over it, ready to break it open. 

Inside the terrarium are _hundreds_ of Georgia-sycodid’s babies. Well, _babies_ might not be the best name for them any more since they are now almost full grown. 

If the moment wasn’t so fraught you’d be pleased as punch to see that they _didn’t_ consume each other. Jess must’ve done a good job keeping them fed. _Good girl._

Hux’s icy eyes steadily growing wide with fear gives you the confidence to keep going, “You know just as well as I do that if you get bit by one of these guys, you’ll be dead within an hour. There’s no antidote on this ship.” 

“You wouldn’t…,” his voice is subdued, like he’s afraid it’ll break the glass. 

“If you’re so sure, then call my bluff.” 

And the egotistical prick does - he calls your bluff. 

He lifts the blaster, takes aim and at the same time he shoots you plummet your fist into the top of the enclosure, shattering the glass, allowing hundreds of fat-bellied magenta spiders to crawl up your arm and cover almost every inch of your body.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen, your frontal cortex is overloaded and your analogies aren’t top shelf anymore.

A lot of people say that adrenaline blocks pain. These people are incorrect. 

Adrenaline doesn’t block pain. Instead, it _redirects_ your attention away from the pain. 

Your pain is still there. Those nerve endings are still firing in the gashes on your hand, in the blaster wound in your shoulder, and on the inside of your thigh where the panicked vampire rat in your pocket has aggressively latched onto your great saphenous vein in response to his fear of the spiders - not unlike a baby latches on to it’s mother and suckles for comfort. 

The messages are still being sent to your thalamus, informing it of the tissue damage, you just don’t give a shit about it because the adrenaline has pushed your focus elsewhere. 

“You dumb... _whore_!” Hux spits as the sycodids continue to disperse themselves all over you like molecules of gas move to fill the volume of its container. They’re on your forehead, neck, chest, and cheeks. They’re crawling up your sleeves, down the front of your jumpsuit (inside and out), and one even decides to set up camp in the concha of your ear. 

The General is backing away, fear in his eyes, blaster pointed directly at you, “What have you done? Not only have you just killed yourself, you’ve put all your _friends_ here at risk.” He nods toward Rey, who is, to your surprise, kicking _so_ much ass. You really underestimated her. 

You shrug and take a step toward him, several spiders fall off and scuttle away you as you do and you relish the way he stumbles back - squealing like a little piglet, “You’re going to kill me anyway. And I know something about these little spiders that you don’t.”

The adrenaline is also fueling your fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants responses. You have no idea what you’re going to say until it’s coming out of your mouth.

“If anything harms a sycodid’s host, they swarm the attacker.” 

You are one thousand percent betting on Hux having _zero clue_ about arthropods. And you’ve made a lucky bet, because instead of saying, “Ha! Sycodid’s aren’t parasites, so by _definition_ they don’t have hosts.” like someone with a rudimentary understanding of arthropods would, he says, in a shaky voice that is just... _so_ satisfying, “Wh… what do you mean by that?” 

Channeling your best confident biologist voice, you say, “It means if you kill me, the sycodid’s will not rest until you’re dead.” 

And to your amazement - the man eats it up. It’s like telling a ghost story to a gullible child. Hux truly believes that these _spiders_ will hunt him down with the vengeance of a scorned mob-boss. It’s hilarious and you have to put in some effort to keep from laughing out loud. 

Then, as if you are stating mere facts instead of making up absolute shit on the spot, you add, “Another thing you should know about sycodids, the first part of their name… _syc_ it sounds a lot like _sic_ doesn’t it? That’s because they have a very unique ability to sense the... anxieties of their host, and hone in on where this anxiety is stemming from. In other words, I can _sic_ them on you… or anyone I’d like. So if one of your little soldiers over there hurts that girl with the lightsaber?” 

He jerks his head over to look at Rey, and you can see his chin is trembling, “Yeah... I could sic half a dozen of these bad boys over to pick them off one by one.” 

“You’re lying.” You’d be worried you’d taken it too far if you didn’t hear the fear in his voice. 

_Of course I’m lying, you idiot! And if you had bothered to learn basic elementary biology and had two critical thinking neurons synapse just one time, you’d realize it._

But you shrug like it’s nothing to you if he believes you or not, “Maybe I am. But is that a risk you’re willing to take? You called my bluff earlier and look at where that got us.” You look down at the sea of writhing magenta that is your body, then snap your eyes back to Hux’s, “I’m going to explain this to you _one last time, **asshole**_ : I’m a fucking **entomologist**. And an _entomologist_ is an expert on arthropods. Do you _know_ what _phyla_ sycodids belong to?” 

Hux’s back is pressed against the far wall of the menagerie and he glances toward the door. He wants to flee. You’ve cornered him and it feels… _fan-fucking-tastic_! For the first time in this ridiculous farce of a space zoo/prison, you feel powerful. 

“I asked you a question, _General_.” By this time your whole Queen of the Arachnids performance has drawn the attention of the Storm Troopers, and as they start to realize the venomous spiders are loose, they collectively decide to get the fuck out. 

Without even bothering to look at you, Rey shouts that she’ll meet you at the Falcon with the others and runs after them. 

You nod and then focus on Hux again, “I asked you: _What_ phyla do sycodid’s belong to? I’ll give you a hint. It starts with an A.” 

“... Ar.. Arth…,” Hux is temporarily distracted by watching his army retreat. When he looks at you again, you notice a bead of sweat travel from his hairline to his brow and you nod encouragingly as he finally says, “Arthropods?” 

You clap patronizingly. The movement causes a couple more spiders to fall off and skitter away and several more to retaliate by piercing your skin with their fangs. _Fingers crossed that my hypothesis holds up._

Luckily the adrenaline keeps your focus and you smile at Hux, “ _Good boy._ ” 

But nothing can keep your focus on Hux when a familiar voice calls your name from behind you. 

Well, to call Kylo’s voice a _familiar voice_ would be akin to calling a donut something boring like… dry toast. 

Listen, your frontal cortex is overloaded and your analogies aren’t top shelf anymore. 

What you’re trying to say is that saying Kylo’s voice is “familiar” is a gross misrepresentation of what happened in your brain when you heard him say your name. The sound waves traveled through your temporal lobe and like an overwrought emotional psychedelic pin-ball game it hits your hippocampus which then lights up your _whole_ limbic system. 

_So. Many. Feelings._

_**All.** The. Feelings._

You look over your shoulder towards him and your whole entire body reacts. You stop breathing, your stomach drops, then flutters, your mouth goes dry, and your fingers start to tingle (which _might_ be due to peripheral nerve damage from breaking the glass with your fist?). 

However, all this happens _internally_. Externally, you’re paralyzed. Your brain keeps telling your legs to move toward him, to bridge the distance between you two - but your legs don’t listen, they stay rooted to the spot. 

Although his face is the same one that has been in your memory, there’s something different. Something so subtle it’s difficult for you to describe it. He looks… brighter somehow? Less angsty? 

Though his brow furrows in his familiar expression of concern as he takes you in. 

You just cannot seem to get a handle on the whole romantic heroine thing. Because for the _second_ ever grand-romantic gesture of your life, you are definitely _not_ looking the part. 

First off, you have hundreds of deadly (not really * _fingers crossed_ *) arachnids crawling all over you. Then there’s the lizard in your front pocket who didn’t get the memo that these spiders are super endangered and keeps poking his head out to grasp them with his dark green tongue and _eat them_. Plus, the blood from your lacerated hand is dripping on the floor, you’re sure your hair’s a mess, and the activation of your sympathetic nervous system has made you all sweaty. 

But the thing is, you know he doesn’t care. Just like you don’t care that he’s all… well, shit. He looks terrific. He’s a snack and he was on death’s doorstep two seconds ago - it’s not fair really. 

A rustle and a yelp from behind you has you ripping your eyes from Kylo’s to see Hux making a mad dash to the door. If he makes it out, he’ll alert the rest of the ship and then whatever plans for escape you had would be completely screwed. 

Knowing this, you take off after him, out of the menagerie, and down the corridor. You’re followed closely by Gertie. 

With your blood loss, and hypoglycemia from your hangover vomiting you can’t seem to catch up to Hux. Right when you’re about to call it quits, he trips. No. _Someone_ trips him. 

As you've been moving, you've lost the majority of your spiders, but there’s still enough for you to gather up a handful of them and throw them on Hux as you approach him. He flinches, covers his face with his hands, then proceeds to scream and howl as if he’s melting. 

You disregard him, looking instead toward the precious blonde girl, the one who tripped him. Perhaps _precious_ isn’t the best way to describe her because she certainly _does not_ look precious the way she's sneering down at the General. 

“Jess?” 

Her icy blue eyes lock onto yours, “I fucking hate this guy, I fucking hate this place, and I don’t know how many times I have to tell you: my name is **not** Jess, it’s _Jex_!”

_Ooooooo! Feisty. I **like** her._

You grin and cock your head back, “Get Gertie and let’s blow this popsicle sta-,” but the air gets knocked out of you as someone comes up from behind you, grabbing you around the waist, turning you, and hauling you over their shoulder all while running.

They’re carrying you sack-of-potatoes-style, so your top half is inverted, getting a full view of their strong, broad, _delicious_ back. 

With you over his shoulder, Kylo leads the way, racing all the way to the loading dock with Jex and the vulptex following behind. From the angle you’re at you can’t see what’s happening as you approach the ship, but you can hear a lot of yelling, the hum of at least one lightsaber, the periodic bellowing of a wookie, and the occasional _thud_ of a body hitting the floor. 

You try twisting to get a better view but when you do Kylo’s grip on your thighs tightens, making Spike dig his fangs in further, so you wince and stay put. 

At length, when you’re sure all the blood in your body is pooling at the top of your cranium, you see the metal of the floor on the Falcon below you followed by the sounds of the doors closing and the engines powering on. 

Kylo pulls you down the front of him, keeping your body pressed against his. 

Around the two of you is bedlam. At least four different people are shouting over each other, the ground begins to shake as the craft lifts off, and the R2 unit is trilling chaotically. 

But you don’t register **any** of it, because you’re looking into a set of beautiful brown eyes, ones that you thought you’d never see again. Kylo’s hands move from your waist to frame your face, brushing the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. 

“ _You’re here_.” He whispers shakily, bending to brush his nose against yours and you notice that his own eyes are starting to brim with tears too. 

With one of your hands you reach up and grab his wrist, feeling his radial pulse beneath your fingers, and just to be sure you press your other hand to his chest, measuring the rise and fall yourself. Needing to _feel_ the proof he’s alive and in front of you. 

As he leans forward, your eyes flutter closed and everything falls away. The ship, the throbbing in your hand, the stabbing pain in your shoulder, the dipodimaid _still_ latched onto your saphenous, the welts that the sycodids left on you. You don’t feel any of it. 

Adrenaline doesn’t block the pain, but this does - Kylo’s lips pressing against yours does. Kylo's hands holding you tightly to him does.

Everything that’s not the two of you vanishes and everything is right again. 

No. Not everything. 

Something’s wrong. 

When he pulls away, you sway forward and the world starts to go fuzzy. 

He says your name, but it sounds far away, “Are you okay?” You register three worried creases in between three of his brows because there are three of him swaying in front of you. 

_Hmm. I guess I am the swooning type_. Is the last thought you have. But you don’t swoon. 

You pass right the fuck out.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EVERYONE! Shut up and read this obnoxious (sorta disgusting) self-important speech that literally no one asked for!**
> 
> (read in a Moira Rose voice) 
> 
> A few years ago, my brain did something weird as a result of studying for the MCAT. I found that for some reason the only thing I wanted to do in my downtime was read an unhealthy amount of Kylo Ren fanfic. As a mild Star Wars fan and a newcomer to fanfic, this was confusing. But I didn't have time to examine it. 
> 
> ANYWAY, as time went by I craved more of the reader inserts that had snarky, smart, relatable female characters. And eventually just started writing my own. I thought that **maybe** like four people would be interested in a poorly edited fanfic thrown together by a stressed out med student who's only writing credentials are scientific papers. So I've been blown away and beyond flattered that so many of you (I mean, at least more than four of you?) have enjoyed it. You are all my people. 
> 
> I've always thought I knew how it was going to end, but as time has gone on, I've been thinking of changing it up a bit. So, for the next week I'm going to decide how to wrap this up while also studying for my upcoming clinical exam. 
> 
> BUT in the meantime here's a bit o' fluff. 
> 
> As always, thank you for listening to my nonsense.
> 
> xx
> 
> Evie

“So, let me get this straight,” Dr. Vlask is the torgruta who serves as the head of the Entomology Department at The Galactic Science Foundation, and she’s livid. Also, you don’t want to stereotype, but a livid torgruta is seriously terrifying. “You had hundreds of sycodids, a species of arachnid we’d previously thought to be _extinct_ , in front of you, in a terrarium and you decided to release them in order for you and… your _ex-boyfriend_ to escape?” 

While the rest of the board members look down the conference room table at you, you shrink into the tall leather chair that you’re sitting in, wishing the whole thing would swallow you up. 

“Tell me. How many of the sycodids _were_ you able to bring back to us?” 

You sit up straight, eyes wide with shock. No one told you this was going to be part of this meeting. Now that you think about it, you’re not sure _why_ this meeting was called in the first place. Also, _how_ did you get here? 

“Are you going to answer the question or not?” Vlask is relentless. You start to panic. 

“I didn’t bring back… _any_.” You whisper this last word and look down at the table in shame while the board members collectively gasp and start to whisper amongst themselves. 

Vlask _tsk_ ’s and announces on a sigh, “Well, you know what that means.” 

You look up at her, and she shakes her head disappointedly, her head tails swaying as she does. 

_No. I **don’t** know what that means. **What** does that mean? _

When the conference table starts to split in half down the middle, exposing a vast fiery pit below, you jump up from your seat in surprise. 

_What the hell? I didn’t know that conference tables could do that?_

A faceless assistant hands Dr. Vlask a stack of papers. She pulls your graduate degree from the top and displays it to everyone in the room. 

“Wait! How’d you get-,” but she throws it on top of the fire and you’re screaming as you watch it ignite in flames. _Not my degree! I labored so long for it, it’s my baby!_

Then she pulls out every single one of the journal articles you’ve ever been published in and throws them on top of your smouldering certificate in a ceremonial fashion. 

“You are hereby stripped of your title and esteemed position in the scientific community.” She explains as you clutch your chest and start to hyperventilate. 

Someone is shaking your shoulder and you hear Kylo’s voice saying your name, urging you to open your eyes. 

When you do as he says, the whole crazy nightmare recedes. 

It takes you a moment to get your bearings. You’re on a ship, the Millenium Falcon. You’re laying down, on your side, in the same booth the wookie had been sitting in earlier. Your head is in a lap and you twist to see that it’s Kylo’s.

He smirks down at you and brushes a strand of hair out of your face, “Hi.” 

This makes your heart go haywire, his proximity, his dimples, his _being not dead_. You sit up and as you do he turns his head to keep his eyes on yours. The same sensation you had earlier when you first saw him again comes over you. 

_Something is different._

But what? 

You search his face and you can feel him watching you as you do. Though he looks a billion times better than he did when he was comatose, he didn’t come out of the Star Destroyer unscathed. One of his eyes has some bruising around it and a scratch underneath it. You frown at the cut on his bottom lip and for some reason this makes him laugh. 

“What?” You ask. You mean to relay genuine confusion at his reaction, but when you _hear him laugh_ a bubbly sensation fills your rib cage and you can’t help but smile and chuckle a bit as well. 

When he shakes his head and looks down at your lap to grab your hand, a lock of his inky hair falls across his forehead, “It’s just funny is all. _You_ ,” when he raises his head to shoot you a pointed look, he’s closer than he was before, if you were to move a fraction of an inch, your noses would be touching, “looking all distressed for _me_. Have you seen yourself lately?” His voice is half-teasing, but he lifts up your hand and nods to your shoulder, both of which appear to have been bandaged at some point while you were passed out. 

“Excuse me? _You_ are the one who was _in a **literal** coma_ earlier.” You can’t seem to muster the annoyed tone you know you should deliver your rebuttal in. In fact, you have to roll your lips between your teeth to keep from grinning like a fool. 

You have so many important unanswered questions: Where are we? How long was I out? What happened while I was out? Where are we going? _What now?_

But you can’t seem to care. 

All that matters is that Kylo is alive and he’s here, right next to you. You can _hear_ him breathing and _feel_ the warmth of his skin under your palm as you rest it on his cheek, you can count his freckles, and you can trace his… _wait…_

“Your scar!” You gasp and run your index finger along where it used to be. It’s completely gone. How has it taken you so long to notice? 

“ _How?_ ” Is the vaguest yet most coherent question you can think to ask. 

His brow furrows and he shrugs, “I’m not sure, but after talking to Rey - the best we can come up with is that when she healed me, she healed all the parts of me that were damaged by the dark side.” He takes a deep breath and you can tell he’s nervous about saying the next part, “It’s almost as if… the lightsaber wound she inflicted killed Kylo Ren, but because of the life force my mom transferred to her, she was able to save... _me_.” 

“You mean, to save... _Ben_?” 

He nods. 

The corners of your mouth tip down as you try to process this. What he's saying sounds completely crazy, but ever since you left Crait your tolerance for crazy has been growing. Before science could explain natural processes, like diseases and seasons, they were thought of as magical and mystical - maybe you just had to file whatever it was Rey did to Kylo away as _yet-to-be-understood_ until science and technology could catch up. 

_If Rey saved Ben and Kylo died… where do **I** stand? I mean, I **know** who I was to Kylo (at least I think I know), but I don’t know what I mean to Ben. _

You cringe at the selfishness of your thought and are relieved you didn’t speak your ridiculous insecurity out loud, until you are reminded by Ky- _Ben_ (it’s going to take you some getting used to) that he can read your mind. 

“Hey,” Ben’s voice is affectionate and he tilts your chin up to look at him, “I need you to understand something. The part of me that was Kylo Ren only got in the way of how I feel about you.” His eyes search yours, “When Rey healed me, she got rid of the parts of my heart that were consumed in darkness - none of those parts had you in them. The person that loves you has always been me - _Ben_ , not Kylo.” 

Before you can stop yourself you ask, “You… you love me?” And as soon as it’s out your bite down hard on your bottom lip to keep yourself from asking anymore asinine, juvenile, or egotistical questions. 

The way his gaze intensifies and hones in on your mouth, makes your stomach drop. Gently, he presses his thumb on your bottom lip, releasing it from your teeth. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he’s so close, and his voice is so low, you feel the words under your hands and on your lips more than you hear them, “You know I love you.” 

And before he kisses you, you nod and breathe, “I know.”

Because, all of the sudden, you _do_ know. 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**UGH!** *massive eye roll*_

Shortly after landing on Ajan Kloss, Ben and you are given your very own transport vessel as a farewell present. After some friendly banter between you and Poe, you hug Rey and Maz goodbye, high five Jex, and then set off with all the rescued animals (including a box of a dozen sycodids that Jex totally saved) on a fantastical adventure to deliver the animals back to their respective habitats before heading to Endor to research your ants. 

**Ha!**

Not even close. 

Except the part about Jex being a complete badass and saving as many sycodids as she could get her hands on, none of that happened. What really happened in the hours after you came-to on the Falcon was not nearly as pretty. 

With the exception of yourself and occasionally Rey and Chewie, no one seems to be a member of the _Ben Solo Fan Club_. In fact, Poe won’t even look in your general direction, let alone have hostile _or_ non-hostile banter. 

Rey tries to explain to the pilots that because of the weirdo healing magic she did on him, this man is no longer the same person as the warlord they know as Kylo Ren. However, Poe and Finn remain... _suspicious_ to say the least. 

You can’t help but wonder - if _they_ feel so negative toward Ben, how will he be received on the Rebel base? 

Fortunately, you aren’t the only one who’s thought of this. Before landing on Ajan Kloss, Rey informs the two of you in private that Maz had anticipated as much and set up a getaway plan for you both just in case the Rebels demand Ben pay for Kylo Ren’s crimes. 

_Unfortunately_ , despite your pleading (at one point you are on your knees begging) Ben feels he needs to “redeem” himself. 

_**UGH!** *massive eye roll*_

So instead of being snuck away to an escape pod shortly after landing on Ajan Kloss, Ben lets them tie his hands behind his back and you are both taken into a large cave that has been made into a war-room. There the two of you are greeted by a dozen or so officers with the warmth of a winter’s day on Hoth - in other words, it’s so cold it might kill you within minutes. 

From the maps with tiny red X’s and white circles on them pulled up in the center of the holotable the officers are surrounding, you assume they are in the middle of some sort of logistics meeting. Silently, the officers rearrange themselves to clear one whole side of the table for Rey, Poe, Finn, Ben and yourself. 

After a short exchange in which the ties around Ben’s hands are removed, the cave grows quiet. And as it does, the tension grows, the two displaying a positively correlated relationship. 

Maz appears by your side, puts her tiny hand in yours and squeezes. Her presence eases the worry in your chest that’s been rapidly expanding and threatening to crush your lungs. 

What might be an eternity later (but in reality was probably just like... thirty seconds) a stern looking woman breaks the silence to address Ben, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have you thrown into a cell to rot for your crimes?” 

_Wow. People actually say stuff like this in real life?_

And it won’t be the first time you have the thought during the meeting. 

For the next hour you listen to what amounts to the cliched detail-heavy planning meeting that is a prerequisite to the climax of every heroic story. The meeting in which the quintessential high-stakes, hail-mary mission is developed. 

This meeting has _everything_ :

\- Passive aggressive jabs. At one point a middle aged man says, “So you’re going by _Ben_ now?”  
\- Loaded eye-contact and spine chilling glares.  
\- A moment of butterfly inducing possessiveness when your presence at the meeting is questioned and Ben pulls you to his side and declares, “She goes where I go.” ( _*fans self*_ )  
\- The person who asks the question at the end that everyone is thinking, “Why should we trust you?”  
\- And the melodramatic response delivered by Rey, “We don’t have any other choice.” 

If you weren’t so emotionally invested, it would’ve been as entertaining to watch as any hyper-dramatized holoprogram. 

Ben uses his information about the First Order to help them develop a mission that is taking place in less than eight hours and before the hour in the war-room is up, everyone knows their part to play - including you.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

The cavern that is being used as the Rebel base reminds you of an anthill. 

It extends back through a series of winding tunnels that lead into various sized rooms which have been converted into functional spaces. There’s a hangar that opens out into the jungle on one side, an engineering bay, a mess hall, and even further back a series of officers quarters.

Ben and you “aren’t prisoners” in the quarters that you're placed in with an armed guard stationed outside, in the same way you weren’t a prisoner on the Star Destroyer when you weren’t allowed to leave the menagerie. (Read: you’re 100% prisoners.)

Still, it’s a good deal better than the tree-dungeon you were put in earlier. There’s a decent sized bed, a refresher that includes a pool the size of a large bathtub dug from the natural hot-springs under the cave, and you get to be there with Ky- _Ben_ (yeah, the name change is going to take you a minute) so you’re not complaining. 

You’re _especially_ not complaining when Ben walks toward the refresher, pulling off his shirt as he does, giving you an eye full of his delicious back muscles. As he does this, you check him out with zero shame: head tilt, biting bottom lip, internal _mmmmm!_

Which is why it’s so confusing when he turns to you and says, “Are you coming?” you become as shy as a virgin. 

As previously established, sex and you are _good friends_ , maybe even the _best_ of friends. You love it, you’ve never been one to shy away from it, you’ve always greeted it with open arms - or perhaps more accurately open _legs_ (too far?). But for some reason, here on the Rebel base with a man who has _already_ seen you naked and known you intimately, you become bashful. 

Do you _want_ to get in that hot spring with a naked Ben Solo? _Fuck yeah!_

But some sort of a subconscious defensive mechanism keeps you rooted to the spot. The best you can come up with is this: you’ve never before made yourself as vulnerable with _anyone_ as you have with him. You’ve never _loved_ anyone you’ve slept with before him. You’ve never given yourself so completely to anyone before him. And when you left and when you thought he was dying, you’d never _hurt_ like that before. 

With the risks you’d both be undertaking in the next twenty-four hours it seemed counterintuitive to dismantle all your defenses just to have to build them up again if something happened. It suddenly all seems so terrifying to you. 

Ben, who’s noticed by now that you’re not eagerly ripping off your clothes as per usual, is standing right in front of you. He crouches down a little and tilts his head to make eye contact with you. 

Then, just like he did all those weeks ago when he first crossed over that imaginary line while he was sleep-talking in your bed, he smooths the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip and asks, “Why are you sad?” 

Before you can form a reply, something on his chest catches your eye. 

With a hand that’s trembling (Christ, when did you become so _fragile?_ ) you reach up and trace the black cord he’s wearing around his neck with your finger. You follow it from the side of his throat, cutting across his clavicle, all the way down to the middle of his sternum where it’s wrapped around a snowy chunk of crystal with intricate interlacing spiral tunnels. 

_The glass flyer hive._

Standing in front of you, is a representation of the two things you love the most - Ben and your research - coexisting together. 

“Ben?” You’re still looking at the piece of the obliterated hive until he tips your chin up to look into his eyes.

A lump in your throat develops that you can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how hard you try to swallow it down, “The plan...,” is all you can get out at first. 

“What about it?” 

You take a deep breath, “I need to know, if we pull it off, will that be enough redemption? Or will you be paying for the rest of your life? Will you let _them_ have you?” You tilt your head back toward the closed door that leads out to the rest of the Rebel base. 

Then you press your palms to his bare chest and step closer to him, tipping your head further back to keep your eyes connected to his. When you ask your next question, you’re so terrified of the answer, you whisper it, “Or will you come with me and finally let _me_ have you?” 

Rather than answering your question directly, Ben brushes the hair off your forehead and lays a kiss there before grabbing one of your hands off his chest and leading you further into the cavern. 

Once at the edge of the hot spring, he turns you to face him. When he grasps the hem of your shirt, you hold your arms over your head in permission, and he slowly peels it off. The way his eyes wander over your chest, it makes your stomach feel tight. 

Like he did with the hair on your forehead, he brushes the strap of your bra off your shoulder so he can place a kiss in the hollow above your clavicle. 

Instead of standing back up, he lowers himself down onto his knees in front of you as his hands slide around your ribcage to undo the clasps at your back. Then he pulls you down onto his lap while the last piece of cloth covering your torso falls onto the ground at your side. 

Wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, you bring your hands up to bury your fingers in his hair. Your chest presses against his and you feel the crystal edges of the hive around his neck dig into your flesh. But the skin-to-skin contact is so intoxicating, you barely notice and melt into him anyway. 

This position, with you looking down on him gives you the illusion of having the physical advantage, of being in control. And the _way_ he’s looking up at you - it’s how you imagine you looked at Georgia the sycodid when you first saw her - like you’re some sort of a precious fucking gem that he can’t believe is there in front of him. Normally, this would feel over-the-top, it would make you uncomfortable, but in this moment it makes you feel courageous enough to dismantle what’s left of your defenses. 

When you dip your head down and place your mouth on his, his response is immediate and impatient. He snatches your lips with his and slides his tongue into your mouth possessively. This causes the tightening in your lower stomach to take a nosedive straight in between your thighs and your movements become as starved as his. 

With your temporal lobe in charge, you shamelessly meet the demands of your body, circling and grinding yourself against him. He groans into your mouth and skates his hands down to grip your hips, encouraging the motion. 

This is when it becomes necessary for you to pull away, not only because you both need to… you know _breathe_ , but because you need to address the obvious mechanical problem with this whole situation: pants. You are both still wearing them and even though the arrangement you’re currently in has been one for the books, it’s going to be awkward to orchestrate a synchronized de-pantsing with him kneeling on the floor and you sitting on top of him. 

Probably (definitely) reading your mind, Ben puts one hand on the back of your head and another on your lower back and dips you back so you’re laying on the ground while simultaneously moving himself over you. 

Surprised and subsequently delighted by how quickly and smoothly he was able to facilitate the transition causes a breathless giggle to escape your chest.

This giggle causes a chain reaction. In response to your giggle, Ben smiles down at you. In response to him smiling down at you, your whole entire body warms and you _need_ to reach up to kiss his dimples. After you kiss his dimples, he strokes your temple with his thumb and says, “You already have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch, friends! *flexes nonexistent biceps*


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throughout biological history, the bigger, smarter, and stronger are often defeated by the least likely of suspects.

From an outsider’s perspective, the Rebel Alliance doesn’t stand a chance against the power of the First Order. The advantage the First Order has over the Rebels is... _unfair_ to say the least. With their resources they’re stronger, smarter, and faster than the Rebel Alliance. 

From an outsider’s perspective, you’ve picked the wrong side. (To be clear, you’ve picked _Ben_. You still think this war is bullshit.) But what an outsider _might_ not know is that whole empires have been brought to heel by single-celled organisms, or that the biggest and strongest of beasts have been completely obliterated because one single non-living nanoparticle is able to sneak into their system with a kill code. 

Throughout biological history, the bigger, smarter, and stronger are often defeated by the least likely of suspects. 

Some retroviruses, for example, can slip passed a body’s defenses barely noticed. It can fool a cell into letting it inside. Then once inside it will deliver a code and trick the cell into thinking the code it brought is the correct one. (Spoiler alert: this code is _not_ the correct one.) Once incorporated into the system, the code the retrovirus gives the cell will kill it and if it gets far enough, it will kill the entire organism. 

This is the plan: to dismantle the First Order, like a retrovirus would. 

**Step one: fool the cell into letting you in.**

Surrounding Exegol there is a fleet of shiny, new Star Destroyers - a gift to the First Order from the Sith Eternal ( _awww_ ). 

Unfortunately for the First Order (but fortunately for you) they simply don’t have enough officers to man them all. So, while the Order pushes more recruits through, the Star Destroyers lay in wait in the safety and assumed obscurity of Exegol’s surrounding nebula. The vessels are half-staffed in case of an emergency and are being used as make-shift training facilities for the rapidly expanding militia, which makes them the perfect point of entry. 

When the Star Destroyer you’re targeting comes into view in the shadow of the horrible dead-lightning planet, you take a deep breath and adjust your hat, looking toward the taller stormtrooper to your right. 

“How do I look?” 

“Like you but dressed as a First Order general.” 

You roll your eyes. _Well, duh._

During the planning meeting the day before, you pointed out that the best choice for someone to impersonate a general in the First Order would be you. As the only person in the room who has not been affiliated with either side, no one - other than Hux, who will be lightyears away from Exegol on _his_ Star Destroyer, or Palpatine, who will be on the planet _below_ the target - will recognize you. Therefore, you are, hands down, the best bet for fooling the ship’s defenses and being allowed entry onto the vessel.

“I mean, do I look like a _real_ general? Like Hux?” You puff out your chest and do your best impression of Hux’s smug, pinched face. 

Ben laughs and you frown at the helmet, wishing you could see his face. It’s been a long time since you’ve had to speak with him through a mask and you forgot how much you dislike it. 

“You don’t look anything like Hux,” in a lower voice he adds, “You have way better boobs than him.” 

This makes you snort but the stormtrooper to your left, the shorter one, coughs. 

“You’re being way louder than you think you are.” Rey complains through her mask. 

Turns out it's hard to whisper through stormtrooper helmets. You learn something new everyday! 

Reluctantly, you move away from Ben to give Rey an apologetic look. 

The truth is, it was nice to be distracted by the gravity of the task at hand. There are so many places this plan could go wrong. And if it goes wrong, it’ll most likely be fatal, not only to you and Ben, but to the hundreds of people counting on it to work. 

In the grand scheme of things, your role is small compared to Ben’s and Rey’s. But if you fail at convincing the right people that you are an important general, they won’t be able to complete the next steps. 

When Finn (who is also disguised as a stormtrooper) pulls the TIE Fighter onto the landing dock of the Star Destroyer, your worry begins to escalate into panic. 

Ben must sense this because he reaches down and grabs your black leather clad hand with his bulky armored one. 

“I remember the first time I saw you. You were in the holding cell and you stood apart from everyone. I couldn’t figure you out, the way you were looking at everyone like they disgusted you. The Rebels, the First Order officers, _me_ , you didn’t care - you hated us all.” 

This makes you chuckle and sigh as if you were remembering a fond memory, “Ahhh, yes. I _did_ hate you all.” 

“That’s exactly how you need to act as soon as we get off this ship.” 

You turn your head to him and raise an eyebrow in question. He elaborates, “You need to act like every single person you meet is below you, like you know better than everyone here, like you don’t care what happens to anyone on this ship.” 

“Wow.” You deadpan, “No wonder you wanted to have me executed.” 

Even though you can’t see him, you know he’s smirking from under his helmet, “You just need to have that same confidence.”  
.  
.  
.  
_I hate every single person here. Every. Single. One. (Except you of course.)_

Once again you glance at the tall stormtrooper to your right. You’re taking Ben’s advice. Channeling the same pure negative energy you had when you arrived on your first Star Destroyer. 

As soon as exiting the TIE Fighter, you are approached by a lieutenant in a uniform almost identical to yours except his is grey while yours is black. 

_That ridiculous butt chin on your face - I hate it. That slimy smile - it’s gross. You’re gross and I hate you._

Ben’s advice must be working because the grin freezes on the lieutenant’s face and he appears to grow nervous as he addresses you, “General Fisher?” It’s the name given to you by the Rebels when they created your profile. 

When you nod, he continues, “I apologize for the poor reception,” he gestures around the empty landing bay. Although the fewer people you encounter, the better, you arrange your face into one of displeasure to keep up the intimidating facade, “We were given little notice of your pending arrival. The transmission came in not even ten minutes ago.” 

This is because of the Crimson Nebula surrounding Exegol, it makes it difficult for the hackers working from Ajan Kloss to access their system. However, once you were past the nebula, Rey set up some sort of relay device for them and they were able to get in and send a fake First Order transmission to inform them of your pending arrival. 

“As I’m sure the transmission explained, this is a matter of some urgency.” 

The lieutenant nods, “Of course.” 

After a brief moment of silence you motion toward the shuttle with exasperation and say, “ _Well?_ Are you going to take us to the control room or are we just going to sit here staring at each other all day?” 

“Oh! Of course, General Fisher. Follow me.” you’ve effectively flustered the guy and your lips twitch from the effort of keeping a self-satisfied smirk off your face. 

** Step two: deliver a code and convince the cell it’s the right code. **

Ben was right. The Star Destroyers on the periphery of Exegol are severely understaffed. As the lieutenant takes you to the control room you pass only a handful of people. In contrast to the Star Destroyer that you were held prisoner on, it feels eerie - like a ghost town. 

You’ve never been inside of a Star Destroyer control room, so you didn’t know what to expect. It’s two levels and the one you are led to is the upper level. It has a catwalk that leads to a wall of windows looking out toward the ominous, shadowy, smoky-colored planet in front of you. On either side of the catwalk is the lower level, where there are ten control stations, five on either side. 

“Only four operators?” you ask, looking down at the sparsely manned control booths. 

“Like I said, General,” the lieutenant's voice is shaky, “We didn’t have enough time to prepare for your arrival, and as you know these ships are being used as training facilities at the moment and are not manned for combat.” 

“It’s quite alright, lieutenant,” you give him a sympathetic look and see him relax a bit, “We’ve been ordered here to carry out a sensitive and highly classified mission. The less people are here, the better.” 

His responding nod is enthusiastic and you start to feel a little sorry for the guy. He just wants to feel important, to feel like he’s part of something, like anyone else. 

“Can you call the operators up here? I need to talk to them.” 

The lieutenant does as you ask and as soon as they are lined up, Rey instructs the lieutenant to show her how to lock down the control room. Without question, he does as she asks, making you wonder if she used a touch of that handy force-persuasion on him. 

Then, you tell the control room operators what you’re there for: to blow up the very planet they’re supposed to protect. 

“We’ve received intel that about an hour ago the fugitive and former Supreme Leader of the First Order Kylo Ren and the Jedi girl affiliated with the Rebels landed on Exegol with the intent to assassinate Emperor Palpatine.” ( _Can you assassinate the undead?_ )

A couple of the operators gasp and shoot each other shocked glances. 

“Don’t worry,” you assure them, “The Emperor has been removed from the premises and taken to an undisclosed location. He is safe. However, we’ve been given instructions to destroy the planet along with the two hostiles on it.” 

The quiet that follows your speech is heavy and you start to worry they’re beginning to suspect you. 

Indeed, the lieutenant breaks the silence and asks, “Why would we destroy the _whole_ planet just to kill two people?” 

You round on him with narrowed eyes, “Are you questioning my orders, lieutenant? Because my orders come from the Emperor himself, so if you are, you’re also questioning the orders of _the Emperor_.” 

He shakes his head, chastened, “No, General Fisher.” 

“My guard here,” you gesture to Ben, “Has the codes for you each to input into your stations. These codes will activate the weapon. Now get to work!” 

When all four of the operators stand at attention and salute you, you get a thrill. Maybe you _should've_ gone into the military. The power-trips sure are fun. 

Now that you’ve done your part, you’ve gotten the code into the place it needs to be, you take a full breath for the first time since arriving on board.

**Step three: input the code and fuck up the whole entire system (or in this case blow up an entire planet).**

This is where things get… _tricky_. 

Each of the new Star Destroyers is equipped with a weapon that is capable of destroying a whole planet - so cleverly named a “superweapon.” ( _For real though, who is in charge of naming things for the First Order? Because as far as you can tell, a so-called "Star Destroyer" cannot, in fact, destroy a star... they had one job!_ ) 

There are several obstacles to overcome when one is trying to sneakily activate a superweapon as Ben is. First and foremost being, it’s impossible to be discreet about it. 

The weapon takes a shit-ton of energy to power, so once the process starts, every ship around you will know what you’re doing. It'll be like you're waving a flag that says "Hey! We're Blowing Up A Planet!" Not only that, but once you turn it on, the ship will need to use most of its energy to power up the weapon. Which means the ship will be completely defenseless while it powers up, which takes… “anywhere between eight to twelve minutes,” according to a _very_ helpful Ben. 

Normally, when a Star Destroyer is utilizing its superweapon it has the assistance of several other Star Destroyers and a fleet of TIE Fighters to defend it while it does its thing. However, soon after you get started, the surrounding ships are going to freak the fuck out. They’ll start by cross referencing the fake orders sent by the Rebel Alliance with verbal confirmation from the Emperor himself - as per protocol. 

This is when all hell will break loose. 

When listening to the plan in the meeting, it’s easy to brush off this part. But when it starts to happen in real time, it’s impossible to ignore. 

Ben sets the coordinates and with the help of the operators, activates the codes required. When the weapon starts powering up, you have to clasp your hands behind your back to hide the fact that you're wringing them. You stand in front of the windows and look out at all the Star Destroyers. 

_They're like sleeping giants. So quiet. So peaceful. For now…_

As you imagine the lieutenants on the ships scrambling around trying to figure out what the hell is going on, a pit begins to grow in your stomach. All at once a sequence of deafening trilling sounds begin to ring down in the control center. You turn just in time to see Ben hold out his hands, stopping all four of the operators at once and bellow, “No one answer that!” 

From the other side of the catwalk you see Rey intercept the lieutenant as he realizes what’s going on. She takes off her helmet and speaks to him in a low voice. You can’t hear what she’s telling him, but you know what she's saying. To be sure, in a daze, the man instructs his operators to go with him to an escape pod. Once they leave the room, Rey locks the control room again and it's just the three of you. 

Next she hops down to the control center and presses a few buttons on one of the panels, announcing she’s sent out the signal. The grace and calm in which she undertakes her tasks is truly impressive and you’re struck again by the thought that you’ve underestimated her. 

“Ready?” Ben asks as he pulls himself out of the pit to join you by the window. He’s taken off the stormtrooper armor and while being able to see his face brings you joy - it’s short lived. Because the banging on the control room door has begun. 

You’d anticipated as much, in fact, every single thing you’d all anticipated would occur starts to happen in rapid sequence. After the pounding on the control room door starts, the sirens and flashing red lights begin, warning you that there are cannons locked on to your vessel. Turning from Ben you look out the windows to see the surrounding Star Destroyers have mobilized - to surround yours. 

You’d been _told_ all this would happen, and yet _seeing it... **living it**_ , makes you feel so small. So insignificant. Like a beetle staring at the boot that's about to crush it. 

A hand rests on your shoulder and you can feel Ben behind you, but you’re frozen to the spot by your fear so you don’t look back at him. He pulls the ridiculous general’s hat off your head, tossing it to the floor, and kisses the crown of your head. Saying, “It’s going to be okay,” into your hair as he pulls away. 

“Where are they?” Rey asks. 

You look over at her, stupefied by her presence. You didn’t even notice her coming to stand right next to you at the window. And in that split second that you looked away from the window something happens. 

Well, quite a few something ** _s_** happen at the exact same time. 

_Thousands_ of ships - a _swarm_ of ships - appear in the space surrounding Exegol in the blink of an eye. None of them are as formidable as the Star Destroyers, and as a whole, the citizens’ fleet is a ragtag, scrappy crew. But like the army ants that can tear through a village in seconds, they have the numbers, they can tear down their advisories piece by piece. They begin their attack. 

The wavelengths from thousands of blows and explosions delivered in the surrounding area at once light up the windows like a beautiful, horrible, firework show. Rey grabs her lightsaber and looks toward you and Ben. 

“That’s our cue.” 

Ben grabs your hand in one of his, a lightsaber in the other, and pulls you with him out of the control room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the name you're given is a nod to the late, great Carrie Fisher.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey puts a supportive hand on your shoulder and says in a sympathetic whisper, “I’m _so_ sorry... ”

When Exegol explodes, you are hypnotized by the objective beauty of it. The neon orange and blinding white of the plasma center exploding, contrasting with the stunning icy blues of the atmospheric gas and the darker blues and steely greys of the cobalt and iron crust. 

Surely as a biologist you should be horrified at the destruction of a planet on principle. 

_No life worth saving existed there anyway._ Is your abhorrent justification. 

A new, less enormous explosion that happens closer to the TIE Fighter draws your attention, but this one _does_ horrify you.

Once the superweapon fired, the Rebel Alliance citizens’ fleet begins to retreat, leaving the Star Destroyer open to attack. And even though it’s a little late, the remaining First Order fleet open fires on the ship, obliterating it in seconds. 

A pitiful moan comes out of your mouth and you have to press your head against the window to support yourself, because something of yours was on that ship - and now it’s gone forever. A piece of you is missing now, and you don’t know how you’ll _ever_ replace it. 

Rey puts a supportive hand on your shoulder and says in a sympathetic whisper, “I’m _so_ sorry... ”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Let’s rewind a bit shall we? 

Even though the pounding on the control room door sounds intimidating, once the half-trained cadets see lightsabers, most of them nope right on out of there. The few brave souls that decide to try and defeat the two trained sorcerers with lavaswords are rapidly deterred once they see the lethal skills of their opponents. 

You are given a blaster, that you don’t even bother taking out of your holster for most of the trip back to the TIE Fighter. Because one, you’re a terrible shot and you’ll most likely end up accidentally shooting Ben or Rey. And two, _they’ve obviously got this under control_. 

As you jog along the empty corridors toward the loading bay your footsteps and the hum of the lightsabers echo off the walls. The weapons cast an otherworldly blue glow around the three of you from their reflection off of the shiny black metal of the surrounding ship interior. 

This makes you frown. You’re feeling a bit bitter that Ben just… _threw away_ his cool chaotic red one with the crossguard vents. It seems like such a waste and from what you could tell it was all just for the sake of symbolism. Couldn’t he have just be like, ‘ _You know what? Even though I’m not evil anymore, I’d be stupid to throw away a perfectly good lightsaber just because it’s red’_? Who _knows_ when an extra lightsaber would come in handy? You can’t just buy them at any old weapons dealer - at least you don’t _think_ you can? To be honest, your experience with purchasing weapons is slim. 

You also frown as you enter the bay and see that Finn has the TIE Fighter powered up and ready to go. Rey explains that she’d sent him some sort of force message to tell him you guys are coming because **apparently** Finn is also force sensitive. 

_Oh come on! At this point, I'm starting to feel a bit left out. If I find out Poe is force sensitive I’m officially pouting._

But your self-pity vanishes when the three of you are ambushed not fifty yards away from your destination. 

Eight brave (or stupid?) stormtroopers surround you and in a flash Ben and Rey are back-to-back, weapons at the ready, with you between them, feeling about as useful as nipples on a male mammal.

Watching them just seriously kick so much ass, you have a desire to get in on the action. 

_Why?_ Maybe, like the lieutenant, you just wanted to feel like you’re a part of something. Maybe your brain glitched. Maybe you wanted to shoot a blaster. _Who knows?_ But it’s a question that will haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Because when you reach for the blaster, it slips out of your butterfingers and starts to slide down the smooth slanted metal floor of the landing bay. As you crouch down and go after it, Ben turns and says your name in a warning voice. However, his worry is for naught because you catch it quickly. 

When you do, you pop up, holding it triumphantly over your head shouting “ _Got it!_ ” right as Rey is twisting her lightsaber around, out of a stormtrooper, cutting your hand clean off. 

That’s right. 

Your left hand has been severed by a lightsaber. 

Your eyes turn into saucers as you watch your disembodied hand, _still_ clutching the blaster, start to slide down the slanted floor. 

“ _Are. You. Fucking... **Kidding. ME?!**_ ” is what you manage to roar when you catch sight of the semi-cauterized stump where your hand had been seconds before. 

Initially, it’s difficult for you to accept this as fact because you are sure you can still _feel_ your hand. And wouldn’t it hurt like… a _shit ton_ if a part of your body was cut off? Because at this moment, all you feel is a dull tingly ache where your hand is supposed to be. 

Meanwhile, a few more stupid stormtroopers have decided to take on your two companions, but you don’t notice. What you _do_ notice is that your hand has come to a stop. You start to run towards it, but you’re stopped by Ben. 

First, he tries to drag you with him toward the TIE Fighter, trying to reason with you, “We need to go _now_.” But his plea falls on deaf ears. You’re hyper focused on your goal. 

_My hand! I have to get my hand!_

He resorts to picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder and starts running toward the TIE Fighter (and in the opposite direction of your hand). You kick and reach out with your still-attached hand toward the rapidly retreating flesh and blood colored lump that used to be attached to your body screaming, “ _My hand! **My HAAAAAAAAND!**_ ” 

But for the second time in two days you’re carried onto a ship bent over Ben Solo’s shoulder.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Finn lands the TIE Fighter on Rugosa at the same outpost that Ben - or _Kylo_ as he was known then - had taken you to on your first trip to Exegol. The ship lands amongst four other ships from the Rebel Alliance citizens’ fleet including the Millenium Falcon. 

This was your established rendezvous point with the Falcon but on the way, Finn and Rey made sure to call you a medic. Apparently _three_ people responded to the call about a severed hand. 

Since he’s a true _gem_ of a person, Ben carries you out, cradling you like the baby you’re being (you can’t stop crying, but _come **on**_ your hand is _**GONE!**_ ). And all the while he is very distressed about your welfare. He’s murmuring soothing words and kissing your forehead, which is, honestly, way more than you would’ve done. 

If someone were crying about their hand being cut off after the high-stakes mission you’d all just pulled off, you’d have certainly rolled your eyes and asked, ‘ _...but did you die?_ ’ 

Attending to your hand (or lack thereof) takes less than ten minutes. The three medical doctors that have come to examine you, gather around your hand, and agree it needs to be cleaned and bound. So they anesthetize the area, give you a shit ton of pain medications, and… (surprise!) clean and bind it. Then they give you a short lecture on where to go to get robotic prosthetics which you can’t follow because the pain meds have kicked in hard. 

Once they leave, you turn what might’ve been some awkward silence into awkward… well, _not_ silence as you begin to ramble about possible options for your prosthetic hand between hiccups and sniffs. 

“Maybe I could get a super sharp knife like the glass flyers had. That’d be cool... I guess.” An uncomfortable ripple of laughter goes through your companions. Ben wraps an arm around your shoulder and tucks you into his side. 

“Did you know that some male arthropods have their copulatory organ on one of their front limbs?” You display your stump to the half circle of Rebels gathered around you. 

After a beat Poe arches an eyebrow at you and asks, “I’m sorry, is this you saying you want a… _penis_ on your hand?” 

At this Rey, Finn, Chewie, and even Ben laugh (at least you _think_ that bellowing sound the wookie makes is a laugh) and the tension is broken. 

You shake your head at Poe. He winks at you, then addresses the rest of the group, “Come on guys! I’m starving, and if I’m not mistaken - I think we may have just won a war. Let's go find a place to celebrate.” 

When you move to follow the group down the path through the coral forest, Ben stops you. You notice that Rey has stayed behind too. They give each other a meaningful look. 

“Are you ready?” She asks him and he nods. 

_What am I missing? I mean, besides my hand._

Ben lets go of your arm to embrace the Jedi. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” He says to her as he pulls away, “You gave me back… well, you gave me back _myself_.” 

She squeezes his hands and you can see her brown eyes are brimming with tears, “Just don’t forget who you are again.” 

You look back and forth between the two of them with narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of it all in your sluggish opioid laden brain. 

_Seriously. What the fuck is happening?_

Ben looks at you and reaches out to take your hand, then says to Rey, “This isn’t goodbye. I’ll keep in touch.” 

She nods and smiles at him and then turns to direct it towards you.

“He’s all yours. Make sure he doesn’t fall off the deep end again, yeah?” 

You decide to dub Rey the Queen of Vague. 

“I don’t know how I’d do that. Seems like a lot of responsibility. But I’ll try? Also, will someone please tell me what’s going on?” 

Guess what? 

_No one tells you what’s going on._

It’s not until Rey leaves and Ben leads you onto the Falcon that your synapses start to fire. 

_Are we…?_

“ _Are we **escaping?**_ ” you gasp. 

He looks back over his shoulder at you and smirks, “There she is. I was wondering how long it’d take you.” 

Ben Solo takes you into the cockpit, sits on one of the pilot seats and pulls you down to sit on his lap. 

You’re stunned. You can’t believe it. He’s really yours and you’re really his and he’s stepping out of whatever is left of this stupid war to be with you. You really _can_ have your cake and eat it too. 

Well, you _did_ lose a hand. But honestly, _who fucking cares!?_ (Technically, _you_ care. But for the time being everything is _**perfect**_.) 

Ben adjusts the seat back to fit his longer body, presses a few buttons, and the ancient machine rumbles to life. 

“You actually know how to pilot this hunk of junk?” You marvel, glancing over your shoulder at him. _My man can do it all!_

This makes him chuckle. He runs a hand through his hair, “Of course. I learned how to fly this exact Falcon when I was seven.”

 _Whaaa?!_

Your jaw is swinging in the breeze as you watch him take the necklace around his neck off. He leans over and hangs it on the hook above the front windows, so that the glass flyer hive swings in front of the windshield. When he moves to sit back into his seat, he stops on the way to nip at your bottom lip, making you shiver. 

Then, he reaches around you to grab the controls, “Ready?” 

You look into his eyes. _Hazel, with flecks of green and gold._

“I’ve never been more ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over until someone loses a hand.


	37. Epilogue

Someone is calling your voice in a coaxing sing-song voice, telling you to wake up. You roll onto your stomach, pulling the pillow over your head as you go. 

Ben tugs the blankets off your feet and runs a finger down the bottom of your foot. When your foot twitches, he laughs and you bring it up to your body with a groan. You feel him crawling onto the bed and then he lays on top of you, his chest pressed against your back. It’s nice, like a weighted blanket - but better because as far as you know, weighted blankets don’t have such nice hair, and you can’t have sex with a weighted blanket (or at least you imagine it would be difficult). 

He prys the pillow off your head and brushes hair off of the side of your face, then tucks his chin on your shoulder to whisper into your ear, “Wake up, beautiful.” 

This doesn’t get you up, but what he says next does, “I brought you donuts.” 

“Don’t be mean.” You whine while you stretch, pressing your backside into him teasingly as you do. 

For the past eight months you’ve been living in a treehouse in Endor with Ben, researching your phantom ants and it’s been, hands down - rather, _hand_ down - the best eight months of your entire life. 

After you got your super cool robot hand installed, delivered the box of sycodids to Dr. Vlask, and tasked Jex with returning the rest of the animal refugees to their respective homes, you and Ben set up camp on Endor. 

It’s the perfect spot to lay low because Ewoks don’t usually welcome humans to their neck of the woods. However, during your undergrad days you’d established a rapport with them and this time around they welcome you with open arms and even give you and Ben your own treehouse to stay in. 

You love the treehouse, not only because living in a treehouse is just magical as fuck, but because Ben cannot stand up all the way in it (he’s really quite tall). This means that he’s often sitting or laying on the bed when he’s home and this suits you just fine because you’ve found a new favorite sport: crawling on top of a supine Ben Solo and without using _any_ words whatsoever, seeing how quickly you can convince him to take off his clothes. Your best time so far is thirty seconds. 

Outside of the treehouse, Ben has become nearly as invested in your research as you are. He comes with you to collect the phantom queens that are being phased out and keeps you company while you spend hours observing the colonies. 

You’ve always thought you preferred to work alone, but it turns out having a partner to bounce ideas off of and to help you pass the time is _infinitely_ better. Particularly when that partner is as good with their tongue as Ben is. 

He helps you gather data and run statistical analyses. When you started to see significant differences in the concentration of midichlorians in the phantom queens as opposed to the rest of the members of the colonies, Ben seemed to be just as excited as you. He even helped you write up your first preliminary report to send off to the GSF. 

The _only_ thing that could make Endor better is donuts and maybe cheese. There isn’t exactly a general store out in the middle of the forest, so your diet is the same as the Ewoks - which includes, among other things, the very arthropod you’re studying. 

Thus, when Ben wakes you up with the alluring, but improbable, promise of deep fried dough, your stomach grumbles. You twist under him and frown. With a cocky, adorable smile still plastered on his face, he bends down to bring his lips to yours. But he doesn’t kiss you. 

He just hoovers and... breathes? 

_What the fuck?_

You’re about to pull away and call him a creep, but then you smell it. Ben’s mouth smells distinctly like a donut. 

_What. The. Fuck?_

He remains completely still as you lean forward and sniff his slightly parted lips. (If someone was watching this happen they’d definitely be weirded out.) Then, continuing your investigation, you grab his cheeks between your hands and lick his lips. There’s nothing sensual about it. It’s purely for research. They’re sticky and sweet, like they’ve been glazed, like a…

“ _Donut?_ ”

Ben’s eyes sparkle with mirth and he dips his head down to line your neck with kisses. Apparently, your _non-sensual_ detective lip-licking was not so innocent to him, because you feel his arousal through your clothes as he presses himself against you while reiterating, “Like I said: I brought you donuts.” against your throat.

You bat his hands, which just slid up your shirt and honed in on your nipples, away and push him off of you. “Now’s not the time for _this_!” you gesture between the two of you, “Not when there's _donuts_! We can do _this_ anytime. We _**do** _do _this_ all the time. But there’s _donuts_ , Ben!” 

Jumping out of bed at record speed you look around the little treehouse and see the box on the tiny wooden table by the door. You dash over to it and fling it open. 

Once you saw a holoprogram where some pirates opened a treasure chest and when they looked inside their faces were lit up by the pure radiant glory of what lay inside. This is how you imagine you looked when you gazed down at the _three_ round donuts inside the box. 

With the reverence befitting a curator at a museum transporting a priceless prehistoric relic, you take the box to the bed and plop down with them next to Ben who is now sitting up with his back resting against the headboard. 

You take one out and take a bite out of it. Moaning exorbitantly as you chew. “ _Ben_ ,” you say in a soft wonderstruck voice, taking another bite, “ _ **How** did you get these?_” 

He shrugs, an amused expression on his face, “When I sent the report to the GSF, I happened to mention that their favorite entomologist would like a box of donuts to be sent with the next shipment of supplies. And they did.” 

This touches you and you press your metallic hand to your chest. “You make it sound so easy, like it was no big deal.” 

He reaches over and grabs your hips, pulling you toward him and you scramble over to sit on his lap, facing him, straddling his hips. When he looks up at you, his eyes focus on your lips and the corners of his lips twitch up. 

“That’s because it _is_ easy.” he tucks a lock of your hair behind one of your ears. “Doing things, like this, that make you smile is easy.” you wrap your arms around his neck. He stretches up and, like you did to him a few minutes before, licks your bottom lip. “Loving you is easy.” 

This moment, gazing down at Ben, is when you have a realization. A delightful realization. Perhaps the **best** realization you’ve ever had. 

To truly understand someone, you need to ask yourself what they’re motivated by. 

Kylo Ren was motivated by power - but Ben Solo isn’t. Ben Solo is motivated by love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it?! It's over! 
> 
> I hope you guys had as much fun reading it as I did writing it! 
> 
> xx
> 
> Evie


	38. Shameless Self-Promotion

Hello!

I just wanted to let you all know that I've just posted the first two chapters of my Reader/Dream fic based off of Neil Gaiman's comics The Sandman. 

I KNOW that this is very different than a Kylo Ren fanfic but here is a list of reasons maybe you should check it out?

1: Adam Driver should _totally_ play Dream and he's who I'm picturing the whole time I've been writing it. 

2: If you aren't a fan of The Sandman comics or have never heard of them - it doesn't matter. It'll still be a good time I think. 

3: The Netflix series just started filming, so if you want to be cooler than the rest of your non-Sandman-fan-friends, you can dip a toe into the universe with this fic (and then go read the amazing comics by the infallible Neil Gaiman). 

4: The Sandman fanbase needs some more people who love to fantasize about angsty men. 

Anyway, that wasn't very coherent bc it's way past my bedtime. 

Check it out. 

Love and miss you all. 

Kisses, 

Evie


End file.
